Meet Me Under The “Mistletoe”
The tradition of Christmas is commonly known among Americans as a result of being trickled down from generation to generation. But in my family Christmas wasn’t really celebrated. When I was younger, I got gifts so I wouldn’t feel left out when all the other kids bragged about the things they received, but I never embraced the idea of Santa Claus. When we had to draw pictures in Mrs. Dawns class of what we wanted Santa to bring us for Christmas, I was the kid who drew a phone. When the teacher asked me why I chose that, I said, .”My parents are the one giving me the presents so I should call them and tell them what I want.” Mrs. Dawn asked that I keep the information to myself and I gladly obliged. I knew that Christmas meant a lot to kids so I didn’t want to ruin it for them and be the Scrooge that no one liked being around on the holidays. So I went along with everything. I mean how horrible could a holiday be where people are in a better mood, eat good food, and exchange presents?
Since I wasn’t socialized with Christmas, my educators and peers were responsible for everything I knew. I learned that if you fold a paper in fourths and cut it all crazy like, you could make a snowflake. Ornaments weren’t obnoxious earrings, but things you would hang on a Christmas tree. People weren’t stupid and confusing Halloween with Christmas because reindeer ears, Santa hats, and obnoxious red and green outfits were encouraged. Eggnog, as disgusting as it sounds, is actually pretty tasty. Wreaths were welcoming, and if you stood under the mistletoe, you better prepare yourself for a kiss. I had a good relationship with my parents too. I would tell them everything I learned. Each day when my dad would enter the front of the classroom to pick me up, he got to hear all about my day in one long run on sentence. So many things happened that it all came out as one drawn out long diatribe with no breaths inbetween. The names of Santa’s reindeer, (and the annoying song that went along with it) and the romantic mistletoe with its green leaves and white berries tied to a red ribbon that if stood under, one would receive an unforgettable. My father was not impressed with this tradition, “Americans will up anything to touch each other” he explained in hopes that I wouldn’t go around kissing anyone. “Unsa, I don’t want you following these things: kissing, boyfriends and everything. I don’t care how pretty the mistletoe is. These things are no good for you when you’re young.” I assured him that “I don’t like any boys in my class so don’t worry, I won’t be kissed even if the mistletoe has the greenest leaves and the reddest ribbons.”
I wasn’t the girl admired in elementary school. Not to say I didn’t surround myself with boys, I did…but as friends. I actually had a lot of good guy friends because they were interested in my girl friends. Truly, it didn’t bother me. I know the girl is supposed to feel like she wants to be “more than just the friend,” but I saw it as more of a blessing than anything. I had the pleasure of a drama-free recess. We were 10 and boys just didn’t seem necessary. Another reason for why I didn’t get myself into messes with boys was because of the poor example I had in front of me. One of the girls I was close with was lovely, but she was more interested in boyfriends than friends. And when she did get that boyfriend, she treated him like a maid. It would be easy to dismiss this girl, but staying on her good side meant that Ryan didn’t have to choose between me and her.
But one day, Ryan had enough. He asked to talk to me as soon as possible about “her.” Deep down I wanted them to break up so Ryan didn’t have to go through this torture anymore, but at the same time if they did, I would have to choose. It was only a few days before winter break and as selfish as this sounds, I was looking forward to relaxing, and that could only happen if I sorted this out. Luckily that day we were decorating the classroom, so Ryan and I volunteered to pin the wreath near the top of the door.
He placed the tacks in my hand. “Make sure you don’t drop them,” he said. I jokingly replied with, “Okay sargeant.” He punched me in the shoulder and told me to “Quit mouthing off.” I punched him back and said, “Try standing up to your girlfriend the way you stand up to me.” The tone of humor in the conversation dissipated to a somberness. I looked at Ryan and he looked so discouraged. I mean he was a great guy, and though I may not know much about relationships, I know that it’s wrong for a girl to shovel him around like dirt. He was incredible and didn’t deserve that treatment. I mean I was fully aware they weren’t married or anything, but the least she could do was respect him. I knew had to say something, but I didn’t know what. I could say “Things will get better,” or “don’t worry,” but that cliche of a response didn’t seem fitting to the situation.
As I held the chair for him to pin the wreath to the top of the door I said, “Everyone has issues. And I know it is easier for you to talk to me, instead of her but that could be the problem.” He looked down at me and asked, “What do you mean?” I started to fidget because I was nervous that what I would say would offend him, “Well for instance, you are over here talking to me when I can’t do anything. It’s her you have the issue with and always running to me to vent, won’t help your relationship. It will just make you bitter.” He paused with the yellow tack near the loop of the wreath. “You’re right. I’ve been avoiding telling her because I thought she would freak out, but you can’t solve the problem. Only she can.” Ryan hopped off the chair and stared at the wreath. “Do you think it looks a little crooked?” he asked. I nudged him in the rib and said “Nothings perfect.” He smiled wide and said,”Thanks, you’re a great friend” and placed his right hand on my shoulder, “I really couldn’t have—” but before he could continue, I felt someone gripping my opposite shoulder. When I looked down at Ryan’s arm, his other hand was free. How could this be? I turned around to see who it was and it was my dad.
As I was about to introduce Ryan, my dad pushed me back and pointed his index finger toward Ryan’s chest. “Don’t kiss her,” he said in a stern and intimidating voice. Ryan was silent. He just looked scared and his knees were shaking. Normally I would interrupt and defend Ryan, but I was too busy looking around to see if any kids were witnessing this. public display of humiliation. “I know all about the mistletoe,” my dad said like he was Humphrey Bogart solving a crime. Ryan still didn’t say anything. I would have checked to see if he was alive, but touching him didn’t seem like a good idea. When my dad was not given any response, he took my hand and said, “Let’s go.” I was not bold enough to resist, so I went with him. When I looked back at Ryan, his blank expression was still there. Poor kid.
I waited until we got in the car to say anything. As soon as my father turned onto San Tomas Expressway I bursted out, “No one was going to kiss me!” He shook his head, “Unsa don’t tell me lies. Your mother is going to hear about this. We put you in an American school and this is how you act?” he lectured. “Act like what?” I implored. “Act like all the other Americans on Christmas.”
“By decorating my classroom?” I questioned his logic. “You said the green and red plant was the mistletoe! You were waiting for a kiss!” he argued. I put both of my hands on top of my head to grab my hair, “Everything is red and green during Christmas! You can’t assume that it’s always a mistletoe. It was a wreath we were hanging! A wreath!” My dad was quiet. “What’s a wreath?” he asked. “It’s a thing that looks like a donut and you don’t get kissed under it. It’s just for decoration. For the classroom! They wouldn’t have mistletoes in my school anyway. We are kids, no one wants us kissing anyway!” My dad’s lowered brow quickly turned back to normal. “So he wasn’t going to kiss you?” he asked.
“No! Never! He’s my friend’s boyfriend!” I yelled. My dad turned on his blinker and said, “Well you shouldn’t have friends who have boyfriends anyway. They are a bad influence on you.” I pinched my leg to see if I was having a nightmare, but I sadly felt the pain. The whole ride home I looked at the red mark hoping with each blink it would go away and I would find myself waking up in my bed.
The next day when I went to class, Ryan avoided eye contact with me. I thought maybe he didn’t see me, but when it came time to line up to go outside, Ryan stood with some other kids. I wanted to tell Ryan that I was sorry and that I am Indian, the youngest, and the only daughter so this triple whammy lead to me being hovered over. But I couldn’t. I was too ashamed, too embarrassed. When he wasn’t talking me, he kept to his girlfriend. They ended up spending too much time together and broke up before winter break. She forbade me to talk to him, and if I was truly her friend, I would do as she asked. So I didn’t talk to him after that, but it wasn’t for her sake, it was for mine.
As time went on, I didn’t think about it much. He was out of my social circle. However, I was always reminded when my dad picked me up because I could see Ryan hiding in the corner. I’ve stayed away from wreaths and mistletoes ever since.
Little Debbie’s Newest Product
Going grocery shopping SHOULD be an easy task, but when it comes to going with my father, it is always an adventure. I have only lived in three cities my entire life, but no matter where we are, dear old dad always manages to make a unforgettable impression.
I probably should consider myself lucky that my father really pays attention to what I eat, and not in a creepy, “your-father-is-counting-your-calories-Joe-Simpson” kind of way, but in a “I see that my daughter likes this and I will make a note to continue to buy it for her” gesture, which I found rather sweet. Whether it was Flaming Hot Cheetos, (which I would eventually have to give up because they make me sick) Yoohos, or Fudge Shoppe cookies, whatever goodies were finished in the house the quickest, my dad mentally reminded himself to get it again, so that after a long day at school and a difficult commute back home, my brother and I would at least enjoy our snacks. Sometimes when we ate a particular snack for too long, he insisted that we go with him to the grocery store and help pick new things out. For as long as I can remember, my mother has always written a list for him to follow, but when it came to choosing our snacks, they were always listed as “Arham and Unsa Snack.” With such a vague description, my father had little go on, so he asked one of us to go.
Arham would usually be too consumed with video games, so I always ended up volunteering. I actually enjoyed grocery shopping. The thrill of going from aisle to aisle to see all the kinds of food, the new releases, and the stuff that made you say “this is really edible?” gave me a particular sense of satisfaction, but my father had rules. Three to be exact.
1st Rule: Whatever you buy, you must eat. We do not waste food.
2nd Rule: Pick up groceries in order of the aisles.
3rd Rule: Never leave your father’s side in the grocery store.
My father and I would seldom split up. He believed if we stayed together, then I wouldn’t get abducted. I completely understood this mentality when I was 7, but being an adult at the time, I was pretty sure I was passed the getting abducted age. But to ease my father’s mind, I stuck with him. We always did everything according to the layout of the inventory in the store. My mom’s list would be all jumbled where she wrote down fruits as the first thing, the second thing was some sort of dairy product, and the third a hygienic something, and so on, but according to Rule #3, it was necessary to sort which items would come first as to prevent running around the store. Instead, we would coast through each aisle, never making our way backward and always traveling with forward progression throughout the store. It was a rule.
My older brother, as helpful and as wise as I consider him to be, was absolutely useless when it came to choosing new snacks. I was always the one to pick them out and would then have to endure his blatant honesty. “This is gross.” “Why’d you get this?” “Oh god, take it away,” were the responses I would come home to if I picked out something that didn’t please “my majesty.” But since I lived with Arham for quite some time, I knew that even if I were to get a snack he didn’t like, I could always make up for it by bringing home something filled with creme.
Here in America, creme-filled snacks are very common, but when Arham and I were growing up, we never had access to these things. It wasn’t until grade school when kids would swap lunches, is where we discovered these tasty pastries filled with artificial flavors and saturated fats that would suffice for a whole days worth of calories. We were unfortunately the weird kids whose parents packed us the smelly Indian food, while all the other kids opened up their lunches to find Spaghetti-O’s and Hostess packs. So when Arham was in college and I was in high school, we decided to make up for our lost years by entering the haven and deliciousness that is Little Debbies. Her Oatmeal cookie sandwiches, creme filled cakes, and peanut butter wafers became our raison d’être. Even when I would experiment with purchasing other snacks, there was always room for Little Debbie in the cart.
But when I went to college and Arham got a job two hours away from home, the snacks my parents would normally put aside for us no longer existed. I am sure my parents don’t regret us leaving, but their routine became vastly different. My mom didn’t make food for four people anymore, my dad didn’t have a grocery shopping buddy, and my mother’s vocal chords got a rest since she had no one to yell at to clean their room or to pick up the “dirty shirty cheezain” off the ground (me more than Arham). When we moved to our newest house, Arham and I decided that we would go over there together and help unpack.
It took us a few hours, but the new house was starting to feel like a home again. When Arham and I told my dad that we would be staying for the next few days, his rosy cheeks lit up and he said, “If my children are going to be staying here, we are going to need some food for them!” Arham stayed and helped the movers place everything where it needed to go, while my father and I got in the car to find the nearest grocery store. Moving to the new city meant we had to make a good impression. I mean the area was big enough for people to make mistakes, but small enough for people to remember your face.
When we went to Lucky’s my dad bought the essentials: milk, eggs, bread, and then asked me to choose what food items my brother and I wanted. I mean we were only there for four days at the most and I didn’t think getting snacks for us was necessary. He pointed me in the direction of chips, cereal, cookies, cola, but I refused to grab anything. A smile then came across his face and he began pacing throughout the different aisles. As I trailed behind him I asked, “Dad, what are you looking for?”
The smirk didn’t disappear from his face and he kept scanning the entire snack section. “Dad, if you need help finding something, let me know I can probably help. It’s a new grocery store. We are out of our element,” I explained.
“No missy,” he interrupted, “I am going to find it” he declared. My dad searched for 10 minutes and had no luck. He then saw a grocer stocking some freezer items and decided to approach him. I didn’t want to follow. My father was so adamant on it being a surprise that spoiling his fun didn’t seem worth it.
From a distance, the grocer looked uncomfortable as my dad smiled and used his hands to signal the food he wanted to find. As I walked closer to my father and became in earshot of their conversation, I heard the stock boy say, “Um, we don’t sell that here sir. It’s against the law.” I inquisitively asked, “What’s against the law?”
My dad turned to me and said, “Unsa, tell them what we are looking for.” I looked back at my father and responded with, “I don’t know what we are looking for!” He looked at the grocer and said, “My son and daughter’s favorite snack. DOOBIES!” he exclaimed.
My eyes widened at what my father said. “What?! You are asking for what?” I asked with confusion. The grocer continued, “We don’t have that here sir. I can recommend some places that do, but legally we cannot carry those items” he said nervously, but with a firm tone.
I stood there bewildered as my father kept explaining to me, “Unsa I wanted to get doobies for your and your brother. Remember? LITTLE DOOBIES!” He kept saying it out loud and I am pretty sure three or four people looked in our direction.
My dad turned to the grocer, “They would eat them all the time when they were younger,” he proudly said. I tried to intrerrupt my father respectfully, but he just wouldn’t stop. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner, they always wanted some little doobies to go with it. We just moved here and the Lucky’s at our old house carried little doobies. And I think you guys carry them too. I just can’t find them” he said helplessly.
The grocer looked terribly uncomfortable and darted his eyes back and forth to see what kind of kid my father was raising. As he was starting to say, “I’m not in any position to judge but I really can’t help y—” I quickly interrupted and said, “Little Debbies. The snack food, Little Debbies. Can you please tell us where those are?” My dad put his hand toward the man’s apron with his four fingers pointing at him and his thumb up in the air and repeated, “Yes. The snack food. For my children.”
I’ve never seen someone looked so relieved. He cleared his throat and said, “Oh, they are…they are over here.” He was panting as he walked so I could tell he caught his breath out of relief because my father was just asking him for some snacks, not some sticky icky. He brought us to the place where they were and my dad grabbed the oatmeal sandwich cookies and gently placed them in the cart.
He looked at me and asked, “Do you want any more doobies?” The grocer walked away and I could tell by the way his shoulders were moving up and down that he was laughing. I moved closer to my dad and said quietly, “From now on make sure you say Deb-EE. Not Doo-BEE. It means something entirely different here.” He raised his eyebrows and implored, “What does it mean?” I smiled and said, “I’ll tell you in the car.”
We paid for our stuff and the guy who was bagging our groceries, looked at our Little Debbie box and said, “Oh man. I love these. Good choice.” Before I could respond, my dad said, “They are very tasty. These Deebees.” The bag boy didn’t correct my father and neither did I, because I figured even if he was pronouncing it wrong, at least this time it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
Like I said, going grocery shopping with my father is always an adventure, and even if our first impression happened to be the pot smoking family that just moved here, at least we were a hit…no pun intended.
I Like It Rough
The last few days of a semester in college are always the most stressful. In high school, the last few days didn’t matter. The tests were already graded, the teacher didn’t feel like correcting more homework, and finals…well who takes finals seriously in high school? In college, everything is different. Walking into the library during finals is like walking into a Nightmare on Elm Street. You keep wanting to wake up, but Freddy keeps invading your mind and shows you horrible images of theories, philosophical thought, and Russian literature.
The last few days of the semester are when professors really try to break you. During the middle of the semester, about half the kids you saw on the first day are still there, but towards the end is when you start seeing new faces that you forgot existed, since those kids will usually show up and demonstrate extra initiative in class to redeem their absence for the past three months.
I always went to class. As lame as that sounds, its true. I never missed a lecture. Sure, I strolled in a few minutes late from time to time, but there was never a day that I missed any of my classes (I’m a nerd I know) the past three semesters. My schedule was absolutely crazy when I took my Journalism class last Spring. I was balancing working at the mall, on top of working for my school’s radio station, and dealing with all my classes. It broke down like this: I had my radio show at 6am-10am. I had a Journalism class from 10:30-11:45 and a Political Science class from 12pm-1:15, I had work sometimes from 1:30-5pm and then I had another class at 6pm-8:45pm. I was a complete robot. I didn’t even have time to stress out, I only had time to do be where I needed to be. I was always pretty good about going to bed early after my crazy day since I couldn’t keep my eyes open for much longer, and I continued to keep up this routine until one day…everything fell apart.
The director of my department asked me to come help him at 11pm to organize CDs in our library and put new ones in. I gladly obliged since the task was tedious and I knew he had other stuff on his plate. He was spinning at a club and assured me he would be done at 11pm. When I showed up at 11pm, he was nowhere to be found. So I waited, and waited. An hour had passed and he finally texted me and said to stay there and he was on his way. More time went by, but he finally arrived. I didn’t put the pieces together that if he was spinning at a club, of course he would be intoxicated. Having only a Yoohoo in my system, I was fully coherent to work. He basically told me what to do after his drunken rants about me having an older sister (something I don’t have) who he was going to “bang.” When I was finally done with everything, it was 2am. I wanted to walk back to my dorm, but I didn’t want to walk alone since the area was not particularly safe.
I looked at my phone that was nearly dead and set an alarm for 5am so I would wake up, walk back to my dorm, and get ready at 10am for my 10:30 class. So I was going to be a little late? It happens. I deserved it since I went to every lecture since the beginning of the year. I planned my day so everything would work perfectly. I was content with my plan and I slowly shut my eyes.
When my alarm went off, I gathered up my things half asleep and walked back to my dorm. Campus was so empty at 5am. The sun was barely out and the only civilization I ran into was a few joggers with their dogs. I was too tired to smile and make eye contact, so I simply put my head down and walked, dreaming of my comfy bed and the warm room that I would be coming home to.
When I finally arrived, I set another alarm for 10am and threw all the clothes that were on my bed to the floor. I put on my pajamas, and slept. I didn’t even wash my make up off or let down my hair or anything. I just let my cheek just collapsed on the pillow.
I awoke the next morning when I heard “GIVE ME THAT BACK! OR I’LL DRAG MY BALL SACK ACROSS YOUR FACE!” Oh the beautiful sounds of living on campus. I rolled over and looked at my clock to see how many hours or minutes I had left of sleeping. The clock read 11:32 a.m. I closed my eyes in disbelief and opened them again to see if the time was still the same. It was still 11:32a.m. I shot up out of bed and started to tamper with my alarm clock. Why didn’t I wake up? Did I out sleep it and it eventually grew tired of beeping? But I’m such a light sleeper…how could this happen? I didn’t have time to figure it out. I quickly threw on a shirt and slipped into sweatpants, brushed my teeth, and ran out the door. The time was 11:38 when I left and it would take me at least 10 minutes to get to class. I ran to the elevator of my dorm and waited for a few minutes. As soon as it came, I pressed floor 1 and anxiously watched the numbers count down. When it hit the first floor, I bolted out of the door and ran to class in my ridiculous outfit with last nights make up and a raging mess of a hair. By the time I got there, everyone was already filtering out of the classroom. Of course that was the day the professor decided to give us an impromptu assignment as the last points on our grade, which would require the whole class period and I only had three minutes left to complete it.
I thought about taking the No Credit, but that would just be unfair. I showed up to that class every day. He had to understand. I nervously approached him and told him the entire story about being at the radio station late, and not walking back, and missing my alarm, and I promised to never miss another day. He calmed me down as I ran out of breath explaining, and gave me the rest of the day to complete the assignment. He told me it would still be late, but I was in no position to grade grub. I really just needed to take what I could get. I thanked him, and headed toward the exit of the building.
The Journalism building was only two floors. It had stairs on the right and left of the central area and exits on each corner. I took the corner that was nearest me, even though it was the one I was most unfamiliar with. Normally, I walk to a different building because my Political Science class was next, but by some crazy miracle it was canceled. As I was heading toward the exit near my dorm, I entirely forgot about the stairs as a result of my exhausted stupor. I completely missed them and came crashing down. I hit my elbow on the rail, slammed my knee into the wall, and landed directly on my tailbone. As if the noise wasn’t already loud enough, a guy came over and asked me in a very pressing and loud voice “Ma’am are you okay? Ma’am? MA’AAM? ARE YOU OKAY??” I wanted to punch him in the face for bringing more attention to me. He didn’t even help me up. He just kept asking louder and louder as more looks drew toward me.
Finally, a passerby helped me up and saw my red arms. He asked “Does it hurt?” I shook my head and replied, “Not as much as my dignity.” He laughed and said, “I think you’ll be okay. A couple of bruises at the most.” I smiled, “I’ll be looking forward to that,” I said as I limped away. I was not in a good condition to move out and go back home the next day.
When I got back to my dorm, I checked my e-mail and saw that I was accepted into the internship I applied to. I was so excited that I forgot how much my body hurt. They wanted me to start that Thursday. So that meant moving out on Tuesday, resting Wednesday, and then starting work on Thursday. Kind of a short vacation, but I didn’t mind. I was just happy to embark on my first internship.
My dad helped me move everything out and when I picked up the suitcase, he noticed the bruises on my arm. I told him the story and he said, “Uh oh. You fell. You always fell.” This was my father’s sympathy toward my situation. “Did you cry?” he asked. I rolled my eyes and said, “No! What am I? 4?” he laughed and pinched my cheeks and replied, “You have the mentality of 4 year old.” I chose to ignore him and started to gather my things. After a few hours, I forgot all about my bruises and pain.
My internship was in Oakland, Calif. and I was living in San Francisco with my brother. The day before, my brother explained to me what BART station to go to and what stops to get off at. For the most part, I had everything down. I didn’t memorize the route directly, but I knew enough to get to my destination. I was prepared for my ride in BART to be rather lengthy, so I equipped myself with my iPod and headphones. Normally, people taking transportation don’t look at their surroundings in wonder, but I couldn’t help it. It was just so dirty, but bright at the same time. The people filtering in and out of stops would be dressed in corporate clothes, or school clothes, fancy clothes, and some even rags. I had never witnessed such strong diversity in such a small area.
The car I was riding in was getting crowded while we neared the stop for the mall in San Francisco. There was an open seat next to me, but it was kind of tight squeeze, so most people didn’t bother and stood with their hand holding the rail. I kept checking the route to make sure I was seeing the stops I should be seeing. Sticking my neck out and squinting didn’t look too flattering, but I rather risk my image of looking unattractive than being lost. One man that boarded did not feel like standing and boldly took the seat next to me, even if it meant his knees wouldn’t get much room. I politely smiled at him and looked out the window as I visualized images that matched the lyrics to the song I was listening to.
After some time, my stop was finally approaching. The car was slowly going through a tunnel, and I didn’t know how much time I had to get to the door, so waiting by the exit seemed like a good idea. As I got up to exit, I heard some faint noise that did not match my music. The man next to me was staring at me. He must have said something. I pulled one ear phone out and asked, “I’m sorry?” He repeated himself and asked me, “Do you like Gaga?” I looked down at the screen of my iPod and saw that Ghostface Killah’s “Motherless Child” was playing, so I was confused about where his questioning was coming from. He didn’t look like a typical fan of the artist so wasn’t sure if he was talking about what I would interpret as “Gaga”. So I thought I would clarify, “Gaga?” I questioned as I walked away from the seat and toward the door. The man raised his voice so I could hear him. “You know? Lady Gaga. Cuz I see you like it rough,” he said with assurance as he pointed at the huge bruise imprinted a little above my knee. All of a sudden, a lot of eyes latched onto me and more specifically, my knee. I was at a loss for words. I’d never heard of a stranger commenting on someone’s sex life before. I simply said, “Oh..” and turned my head. He smiled at me and made the humming noise of “Mmhm. Girls these days are feisty!” The tall guy with the suit and tie holding the rail nearest me, started to giggle, and I felt more people’s eyes looking at my knee. I adjusted my purple and black cardigan downward as I headed toward the door. When BART stopped, I quickly walked out. To make matters worse, I didn’t even tell him the story or defend myself. I could have said “Oh…I fell,” or “Oh…I got hurt” but I didn’t. It’s like I agreed that I have rough sex and the bruise above my knee was a result of that.
On the bright side, the chances of me seeing those people again are slim to none, so I can’t be too embarrassed. But for the record, I don’t like it rough. I am just clumsy. I wish I thought of that sooner because saying the word “Oh” doesn’t really express my situation, or place me in a positive light.
And the saddest thing of all, is that is how I remember the first day of my internship. I mean sure, I got to work in a television news studio, show my face around the area, and take some actual initiative in my future work field, but in my mind, my first day isn’t signified as an accomplishment. Instead, I get to be the girl who likes it rough, especially in the knee area.
Keeping Abreast In Class
Before and after tests I am always the most fragile. That doesn’t mean I break down and start crying, but I get easily shook up because no matter what I have done for the day, an act of kindness, a cute outfit, or even successfully pulling off a hairstyle, that test, in my eyes, is a reflection of who I am. And although Mr. Rogers believes that a person’s heart is most important, the Indian mind set has taught me to believe that good grades are much more important than goodwill (blame it on the Spelling Bees and math competitions).
I was taking one of my law tests and this class is by far the most difficult class I have ever taken in my whole entire college career. The teacher is absolutely lovely, very kind and sweet, but if someone met her tests as a first impression, they would think she was Joseph Stalin. When she handed me the exam, I felt my knees buckle. During the whole hour, my eyes didn’t leave the paper, and my hand even started to cramp. I kept going through my answers, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn it in. I double checked everything, erased some “weak words” and replaced them with stronger words, and then I finally mustered up the courage to bring it to her desk. As I walked back to my seat, my hands were sweating, my heart was racing, and I became more and more conscious of my breathing pattern. I couldn’t really hear anything around me. I mean sure kids were talking outside and other kids were talking inside, but all the noise was drowned out by my stress. When I sat down at my desk, I took out my computer and planned to surf the web so I could get everything off my mind. Normally I would go on Facebook, but I couldn’t even do that. I just sat there, staring at the wallpaper of my family and I at an Indian function back in the 90’s. I loved the fact that I was so tiny and my biggest concern was coloring inside the lines of my coloring book and whether or not my brother would play Ninja Turtles with me. I missed that. I missed that a lot. Then, a girl two rows ahead of me broke my fixed daze and caught me off guard with her intense eye contact. She seemed to be having difficulty with her computer, but just because I am Indian, doesn’t mean I can help her. When I looked up and acknowledged her she asked me, “What’s your bra size?” I was completely and utterly shocked by this question.
A part of me wanted to say “Mind your own,” but then she would think I was ashamed. I didn’t want to ask her to repeat it louder because the three back rows would know how much of a prude I was. That entire week I had been asked random questions as part of students Psychology projects or Statistics projects, so I figured this was just one of those, but with a more risque and a more interesting angle. Or maybe her curiosity could have sparked because I was wearing a heavy sweater, so now was the time to test her lingerie knowledge. I mean really, who am I to judge people? Even though I was very uncomfortable by her question, I thought that I should at least answer it with confidence to show that I wasn’t. I said “32D.”
She looked at me and said, “I’ve never heard of that before.” I nodded my head and told her “Yeah me neither. The lady at Victoria Secret sized me up a month ago and told me that it’s like C status but the cup isn’t big enough and my waist is too small. It’s like some rare, weird shape or something. I’m probably an outlier.” She looked confused and asked me, ” Well what does that have to do with anything?” I looked from side to side and realized I went into too much detail and she just wanted the size, not my life story. I laughed it off, “Oh haha sorry. Much more information than you needed.” Even after I said this, the confused look didn’t disappear from her face. She paused for awhile and said, “So can you answer my question?”
How rude. This girl has some nerve to ask me a personal question and then can’t even remember what I said. “I already told you my bra size,” I assured her. Her head moved back and her eyebrows arched closer to her eyes. “Your WHAT?” she said with disgust. “Umm my bra size?” I responded with a ‘you’re testing my patience tone’. She used the same tone back at me, “I asked what BROW-SER are you using? My computer isn’t letting me log onto the Internet. Your bra size? I don’t care about your bra size!” Before I could even apologize for volunteering that information, the guy two seats down from me interrupted and said, “But I do…NICE!” as he nodded his head and pointed to one of those “I Heart Boobies” bracelets on his wrist. I think my face turned completely red in a matter of .3 seconds. Luckily the teacher started the lecture again, and everyone poured into the classroom. I, however, sunk down in my chair and kept casually feeling my face, praying the hotness would go away.
So I guess the moral of the story is: it is better to ask someone to repeat their question before you share intimate details about your lingerie. Thank God the class meets once a week so over the course of a 6 day break, they must have forgotten about it…I think…I hope. Well, the one thing I am definitely certain of is that I am changing my seat.
“Are You Indian?”
Indians are the most racist people in the world and Russell Peters would agree. Sure they fear some and envy others but the people they are most racist to are actually Indians. To us, it doesn’t matter if you are from the same country; It all depends on what part of the country you are from. The South Indians look down on the North Indians and the North Indians look down on the South Indians. If you’re from New Delhi, you don’t hang out with people from Mumbai. If you are from Calcutta you don’t associate with people from Gujarat. And although I couldn’t give a damn, many Indians view geographical location as a great importance and as complicating and annoying as this seems, it is unfortunately the way it works. It has become kind of a routine that I am used to, but the one day that I decide to avoid it, is the day that it blows up in my face.
I was going to my Asian American Studies class in the Engineering Building and when I got in the elevator, an Indian guy (in the Engineering building? Go figure.) squeezed through at the last moment. When I saw him, I smiled politely and took out my phone to make it seem like I was busy so I wouldn’t have to make any kind of conversation that would make us reminisce about “the motherland.” The elevator in that building went ridiculously slow and there was a lot of time between reaching the 3rd floor for me and the 4th floor for him. When I was going through my text messages, I saw the Indian guy looking at me and smiling. Even though I went out of my way avoid eye contact, this guy was persistent.
Then he asked the dreaded yet inevitable question: “Are you Indian?” Fortunately in this situation, I don’t look completely Indian so I have some wiggle room when it comes to saying my race. I didn’t feel like being judged that day when it came to disclosing what part of India I was from so I said “Oh no. I’m Persian.” He put his hand to his forehead and said “Oh. I am sorry.” I casually brushed it off and replied, “Don’t worry about it.” As I was finally nearing my floor, my dad decides to call my cell phone. And of course being the lazy person I am, I don’t want to read the ID, so I assigned him an Indian song from the popular movie “Yes Boss.” Now “Yes Boss” is not like “Slumdog Millionaire” or “Monsoon Wedding.” It is not popularly known so if you know the movie, then you are definitely without a doubt, Indian. My speakers on my phone are not even loud but my dad thinks phone technology hasn’t improved since the 1960’s so he continues to yell into them. That day, my dad decided to speak to me in Hindi and ask how I am doing and whether or not I checked my school’s website to see if I have any messages. It would be disrespectful to reply in English so I say a few words in Hindi and keep it as cryptic as possible, and hope the Indian man doesn’t notice. After I hang up the phone, the guy in the elevator is looking at me with an incredible amount of disdain and disappointment. The last 5 seconds of the elevator ride felt like an eternity and I swear his big Indian eyes could have burned a hole in the back of my neck.
I now look like the girl who is ashamed of being Indian and to top it off, a liar too. I guess on the bright side: since I lost the privilege to use the elevator in that building, I look forward to the stairs providing good exercise.
“2 Cocks Please”
I think when your parents are new to a country, no matter how much time they spend there, they will always be FOBs. In my case, the foreign-ess slipped out at the exact worst moments. I mean, of course I wasn’t allowed to go to parties or sleepovers because my parents didn’t understand the concept or the point of either of them, but going out to eat should be easy right? For normal people yes. For me? Not so much.
We were at a restaurant since my father and I were miles away from home and driving an hour and a half just to eat home cooked Indian food did not seem like a good idea. So, we stopped at a familiar place in the area and ordered food. Everything was going fine, until my dad noticed that we didn’t have any drinks at the table. He called the waiter over to our table. The waiter smiled and said, “Is everything okay with your meal sir?” My dad nodded his head up and down “Yes. Everything is very good. But I need one thing.” The waiter raised his eyebrows waiting for my father to order something else. What happened next, I couldn’t even predict.
“Can I have two cocks please?” my father asked. I was in the middle of chewing my chicken and I almost spit it out. The waiter looked extremely terrified and uncomfortable. I started to chew really fast and waved my hands for the waiter to look at me. After I swallowed, I blurted out, “Cokes! He means Cokes.” The waiter looked relieved and went to the back of the kitchen.
My dad looked at me and asked, “What did I say?” What an uncomfortable question. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that what he said was incredibly inappropriate, and talking about the male genitalia didn’t feel right to discuss with my father at dinner, or anywhere for that matter…so I lied.
I told my father that the waiter was deaf. A very bad idea. Of course that backfired, and my dad proceeded to yell at our waiter when he was 3 feet away. “CAN WE HAVE NAPKINS?!?!” “CAN YOU BRING THE CHECK????” was heard all throughout the restaurant. I wasn’t sure if people were looking over because completely avoiding eye contact of any kind seemed best. I just kept my head down the entire dinner so I wouldn’t have to witness the train wreck I created. When we were finished eating, (and when the waiters ears probably stopped ringing) we paid the check and left. Thank goodness my dad tipped well because the waiter will most likely need the extra money for his cochlear implant.
On a positive note, my father has been advised to only say “Pepsi” from now on because I don’t think that word can get confused with anything else…I hope.
There Will Be Blood
Freshman year is the most important year of college because frankly, it defines everything. It defines the kind of people you hang out with, the first impressions you make, and the uneasy and daunting task of how to coexist with strangers. I never knew what it was like to live with other people. I mean all I had was an older brother, who had good bathroom etiquette. Other than occasionally leaving the toilet seat up, he didn’t take much time in the bathroom, unless he was doing his hair with his face really close to the mirror, while he bit down on his bottom lip. But other than that, I pretty much got all the time I needed to do my hair, to play with make up, to shower, etc. I didn’t even have to clean the bathroom. My parents were very particular about how they wanted things sanitized, so they wouldn’t even let me attempt to tidy things up. I became comfortable with that lifestyle. Having someone pick up after me was a blessing, but that didn’t last for too long. Unfortunately when I went to college, the cleaning and the maintenance of the room was up to me.
Cleaning was somewhat of a foreign concept to me. I knew how to keep a room presentable, but I didn’t know how to really clean. I didn’t know what doodad to use when it came to cleaning tile, or what toilet brush was appropriate to clean with, or even what product was best to clean the tops of porcelain sinks. I was completely lost, but I knew how to do one thing: take out the trash.
A task as simple as taking out the trash should have gone smoothly, but then again, I am me. I was praised for the location of my room because I had the guys who played for our football team on my left, and the guys who played for our soccer team on my right. I personally didn’t pay attention, but all the girls that came over spent most of their time outside the door in order to “enjoy the view.”
Unlike the bold girls who would wear something skimpy and walk by the rooms slowly, I had very little interaction with the people who lived near me. I was pretty shy and could only accomplish a passing “hello” without being awkward. So a “prime location” for me did not mean having muscle-y boys walking around. Instead, it was the easily accessible trash room. I lived with seven girls (yes, seven) so trash would naturally accumulate to quite an amount. Since I was the one slacking on the cleaning, I thought I would be a good roommate and take out each and every trash bag. How difficult could that be? Pick up the bag, wait for the trash to sift down, tie it in a knot and badaboom badabang you’re done. The most difficult part of that whole process was going into the trash room.
The trash room was a dreaded area. Not only did it smell, but it was completely cluttered and filled with everyone’s old pizza boxes, empty beer cans, and molded food. The terrifying place was only a few steps and around the corner from my room. When I wasn’t anxiously counting the steps to the trash room, I appreciated how I was given enough time for my flimsy trash bag to reach its destination without the chance of it breaking or spilling.
I looked at the tiny green wastebasket in the bathroom. It didn’t have a bag for me to pull out of, so I had no other option than to take the entire wastebasket with me. As much as I didn’t want to, it had to be done. I held the wastebasket arms length away from me, so that I wouldn’t be able see or smell the contents inside. I wasn’t even entirely sure what was inside, but I sure did not want to find out. As I was turning the corner, I heard a noise and looked behind me. It was a group of guys walking to their room in the same direction as I was going. I was a few feet ahead, until I lost my footing and tripped. I tripped on nothing really. I just simply lost balance. As my body lunged forward, the lid of the wastebasket fell to the side. I closed my eyes as a reflex, and when I opened them the picture I would see would be less than pretty.
The wastebasket was still in my hands, but it was upside down, so all the contents that were inside it spilled onto the floor. At my amazement, (and embarrassment) roughly 30 bloody tampons, and stained pads were on the floor of the hallway. To top it all off, there were already two condom wrappers on the floor, and that is exactly where my trash decided to fall. One of the guys started to walk over to help me pick up the mess, but as soon as his vision became clear, he immediately stopped and said, “Oh my God,” as he slowly backed away. The display of red and white on the carpet did not look flattering on the floor, or flattering near me. It probably looked like they all belonged to me, and not only did it appear that I had been on my period for the past three months, I was having protected intercourse as well.
I couldn’t even move. I just stood there like a deer in the headlights as the already used sanitary products of seven girls surrounded me. The group of guys all stared at me and I stared back at them. I broke my fixed stare and looked at the floor. The sight was more horrible than I could stand. After my nerves finally came back, I knew I had to do something, or at least make some kind of movement to show I was alive. Unfortunately, all that came out of my mouth some kind of utterance that didn’t even sound human; it was a noise that sounded like a cross between a gasp for air and the grunt tennis players make when the ball connects with their racket. The only good part about the situation was that I was wearing gloves, so I was able to quickly pick up the disgusting display of blood at my feet and throw it in the trash room and run away. I didn’t want to look at anyone, but I could feel the group of guys’ eyes on me. I did a quick glance back when I made my way around the corner, and one of them looked like he was going to be sick. It was 8:45pm, and I know his appetite for dinner was ruined because of me.
From then on, I insisted on taking out the trash at 1am or 2am when a chance of someone walking in the hall would be slim. Call me superstitious, but I think if you spill a trash can full of scary bloody girl mess, you get a pass on being rational.
Only Lesbians Go To School Dances
I think the right of passage for any high school student is probably their first homecoming. Usually after the big game (well not in my school’s case) the students would get ready and go to the dance. The mood of the night would be depending on whether the team won or lost (again, this doesn’t apply to my school) and with either outcome, memories would be made to last a lifetime.
My parents were born and raised in India, and the closest things they had to school dances was probably going home, turning on the television and watching Hema Malini and Amitabh Bachchan do Bollywood dances. So there was no way my parents understood how important school dances were for my generation. It was where you found out who hooked up, what couple was in the making, and which person got in trouble that night. It was like a ritual that all high school students each year got to take part in…lucky them.
At my school, although there were a handful of races, not many kids were first-generation immigrants the way I was. And if they were, well their parents were more lenient and decided to (like normal people) embrace the Western culture. However, my parents did not play that game. The way they saw it, they hadn’t moved out of India. Instead, America was a place to enforce the same rules with cleaner toilets and fixed prices. So when it came time for my first school dance, my parents were less than accepting.
Everyone had been talking about how excited they were for their first homecoming. What dresses they were wearing, who they were going with, and what places to meet before and after the event. I really wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to engage in the conversations and help plan, but I had no other option than to just turn my head, or stuff more bread dipped in orange cream cheese into my mouth.
When I came home, I practiced in the mirror on how I would ask my parents. “Mom, Dad, there is a school dance that everyone takes part in and I would be a total loser if I didn’t go.” Oh hell, who was I kidding? My mom was probably the epitome of a nerd since she skipped 3 grades. “Mother, Father. There is a school dance, and it would delight me if I had the opportunity to attend.” No. Did my parents suddenly become William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway? Before I could practice anymore, I heard the key to my front door turn and my dad calling, “Unsa! Arham! I’m home!” I greeted my dad as he opened the mail. As I was about to ask about the dance, my mom called the house phone and wanted Arham and my dad to help her with the groceries in the trunk. When they went outside, my mom came in, took off her sunglasses, and put down her lunch box filled with one container of what used to be a meal, and 12 water bottles. My mom has a fear of getting stranded somewhere so her lunchbox filled with a months supply of water, was her portable savior. I chickened out when I saw them, and went to my room.
During dinner, I was rather quiet. My mom asked me if everything was okay. I told her, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just long day,” as I twirled my fried noodles. My dad started talking about his game of billiards, and that would at least take up the rest of dinner so I didn’t have to worry about the spotlight being on me.
Like clockwork, my parents would drink tea 20 minutes after dinner. I thought this was the perfect opportunity to approach them. They were winding down from work, they were drinking tea, and American Idol was nearly over, so this was my cue. I stood while they sat, so I would feel more powerful, took a deep breath and started, “My school has this homecoming soon. All my friends are going. It happens once a year and I really want to go.”
My dad looked at my mother and said, “Homecoming? She comes home everyday. “No Dad,” I interrupted, “It’s a dance. ” My dad put his tea down and stood up from the couch “A dance? You want to go there and dance?” I thought he was going to yell but instead, he did something much worse.
“Unsa, I can dance with you. I’m an excellent dancer.” My dad started to shuffle his feet back and forth while one hand “pet the dog” and the other “screwed in the light bulb” and then to top it off, he had heard a Snoop Dogg song in the car two weeks before, and he recalled what his version of the lyrics were. “Drop it like a hot! drop it like a hot! Unsa and daddy drop it like a hot!” The sight of it was simply horrifying.
“Mom? Make him stop” I begged. My mother ignored my request and snapped her fingers at his awful display of dancing. I sat on the couch, and put my hands over my eyes. My dad eventually stopped and sat back on the couch and picked up his tea. “Why do you want to go to this dance?” he questioned. “All my friends are going. And it’s a high school tradition.” I explained. “We had a tradition of studying in my high school” my dad replied. I tried not to roll my eyes.
“Dad, in America kids go to dances. They have fun. They make memories. For once, I want to be like everyone else.” My dad paused for a moment. “Do they dance with boys at these dances?” I didn’t want to answer too fast, and I didn’t want to answer too slow. My answer had to be perfect timing and come off as confident and reassuring. “Well yeah, that’s usually the case. But I won’t. I promise,” I said as I held out my pinky. “Then who will you dance with?” my dad asked. That was an easy question. “My friends. People dance with their friends.”
“Your girl friends?” my dad said with confusion. “Yeah. I’ll spend my time with my friends that are girls,” I reassured him. My dad shook his head from side to side. “No! That is inappropriate. ” “What?? Since when is it inappropriate to hang out with girls?” I implored.
My dad leaned forward and used his hands to illustrate the severity of the situation. “Hang out with girls is one thing. Dancing is another” my dad explained. “We will dance and hang out too. How is that cause for concern?” I challenged him. He was adamant, and completely serious about what he would say next,”I am concerned. How do you think people become lesbians?” “Dad!” I exclaimed in frustration.
My mom tried to calm me down. “Unsa…why do you want to go to a school dance? These junky events are not something you need.” I gave up. I didn’t even feel like fighting about it anymore. And even if I did go, my dad would think I was a lesbian. The way I saw it, it was a lose lose situation.
Maybe some kids weren’t destined to go to school dances. Instead, they were the kids that would spend their Friday nights at home or at some Aunty’s house for an Indian function. I mean, someone had to be the loser that didn’t get to go anywhere, right? I guess that’s where I found my place. I heard stories about the dance for years to come. And despite my father’s beliefs, I’m confident that no one became a lesbian that night.
Netflix and Blow Jobs
All I wanted was to get my Netflix in the mail. It was Tales of the Crypt season 4 and it had Brad Pitt in it. Not that I am a huge Brad Pitt fan, but all the stories were morbidly interesting and I wanted to see what part Pitt would get.
Inconveniently, my mailbox is located in an entirely separate dormitory from my own. After walking from my building to the sky-scraper-looking buildings across, up some stairs, and to the right, my pretty red envelope was within my grasp. The room where the mail is located is filled with hundreds of small square lockers, and my box was way at the bottom, forcing me to lay down on the floor and open it. Normally, I get my mail and get out, but on this particular day, mail was a much more difficult process.
I entered the room and saw a guy standing 3 rows away from my mailbox. He had a prime location. It wasn’t too low, and it wasn’t too high, and enough light hit it to where it was easy to see what was inside. I smiled at the stranger, and squated to open my combination. The guy looked down and saw me peering through the window of my mailbox in the very last row towards the floor and said, “Aww that sucks.” I didn’t bother to make eye contact since I was busy, and said, “It’s okay. I don’t mind being on my knees.” I opened my box and my Netflix wasn’t even there. How could this be? My email said it already arrived. Before I could get up and talk to the mail room people, the stranger stopped me and held his hand out with a folded piece of paper between his index finger and his thumb. I took it from his hand and waited for him to explain. All he said was, “See me sometime” and winked. He walked away nonchalantly and did that whole “look-you-up-and-down-thing-as-I-half-smile-and-turn-my-head” exit. I stood there, dumbfounded, and had no idea what happened.
I completely forgot about my Netflix and walked toward my apartment with the paper in my hand. I opened it up and saw a bunch of numbers. I was thinking it was his combination at first, but 10 numbers = a phone number. Why on earth would this guy give me his phone number? I wasn’t wearing anything particularly alluring. I then replayed the conversation in my head and everything seemed fine until…oh. my. god. I inadvertently implied that I would give him a blow job. I stopped in my tracks. I looked around to see if the guy was still there, but there was no sight of him. I don’t even know how that didn’t register in my head earlier. Now I was the blow job girl. Giving head, one envelope at a time.
I found the nearest trash can and threw the number away. Many people told me I should have saved the number but how could our conversation possibly go? “Hi. I’m the girl that accidentally told you I would suck you off.” NO. That was not happening. Since then, every time I get my mail I don’t talk or make eye contact with any one I keep my eyes on the prize and nothing in my mouth.
My Dad The Cock Block
My dad although short tempered, a bad dance partner (will be explained later) and an unconscious comedian, is the biggest cock block in the entire world.
It was my university’s orientation day. It was required for all incoming freshman to complete this process where we would be introduced to the school, sign up for classes, and spend the night. Now going from a school of 350 kids to 35,000 kids was already nerve wracking enough, but leave it to Suhail to make matters worse. In the car, before he gave me my bag of toiletries and looked around at all the kids, “You sure you want to go?” my dad asked me with a worried tone. “I mean I have to dad or else I can’t go to this school.” I emphasized. “That’s okay,” my dad said, “I still will love you. You can take online courses. Come, let’s go home.”
I laughed at my dad and told him “It’s okay. Arham did this same thing 4 years ago, I’ll be fine.” I assured him. “but Arham is a boy” he argued. This inevitable response was used in almost every situation in my life. Whether I wanted to stay out late, go to my friends houses, or drive at night like my brother did, I couldn’t because he was a boy and I wasn’t. I kissed my dad on the cheek and said “see you Wednesday.”
I stood in line and waited for my room key. I ran into a friend from high school and we chewed the fat for a bit, but his last name was at the beginning of the alphabet and my last name was at the end, so we split ways. When I got my room key the lady told me “you are in Hoover Hall” I thought the building was named after the vacuum until the orientation leader mentioned the president. I could be wrong about this too. It was too difficult to focus on historical accuracies when the building I was staying in was covered with asbestos and in desperate need of a paint job, or a health inspection..whichever came first. Obviously, I wasn’t excited. After I met my two roommates for the night, I thought things were looking up. One was a slender girl with brown hair and really enjoyed walking around in her sports bra, and the other girl was quite chubby with dark hair and bright eyes. At 1 a.m. it was time to go to bed according to our RA for the night. So I got ready for bed and went to the community bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. When I came back in the room, my slender roommate was reading a book on top of the bed. I sat at the foot of my bed and looked out the window. Was this college life? Awkward silence between roommates? Maybe i should live at home. An hour and a half commute would top this any day. All of a sudden, I started hearing scratches in the closet. Great, turns out this place really is haunted I thought. I went to the opposite side of the room and winced at each noise that occurred. Then slowly, the closet door began to slide. It creaked, and out came my chubby roommate. “What were you doing in there?” I asked. She gathered her clothes from the bottom of the closet and said, “I was changing into my pajamas.” I saw that her clothes were different, but I didn’t understand WHY she changed in the closet. “There’s a bathroom a few doors down. You could have gone in there. That’s where I changed.” I told her. “I didn’t feel comfortable,” she insisted.
“Oh well we are all girls here any way. You didn’t have to hide in the closet.” She laughed, “I thought I would change in the closet. That way I wouldn’t scare you with my body.” I looked at the other roommate who was completely zonked out of the conversation and I looked at closet girl, and tried not to laugh. “Oh…okay. well…good. I’m really tired. Goodnight.”
I called my parents that night. My mom answered the phone and asked me how I was doing, what I did for orientation, and how I liked the school. I went into detail about the activities we did, but I figure I save the closet girl story for later. My dad then abruptly took the phone and asked, “Uni, are you okay?? Who are you with? Two girls? Are they lesbian? Say your prayers tonight. I will be there early tomorrow. What is the earliest time I can pick you?” My father doesn’t leave much room for me to answer on the phone, so I always answer the last question. “Be here at 1pm Dad,” I told him. “Okay. I be there 12.” He liked to be in control of time. I didn’t argue, said good night and went to bed.
The next morning, I got up and found sports bra girl, and closet girl gone. I checked my phone, which was almost dying and the time said 10:30 a.m. and I remembered that “check out time” was at 11. I hopped out of bed, put on my sweats, quickly brushed my teeth and threw my hair up in a ponytail. As I was hopping out of there, the fabric in my bag got stuck in the hinge of the door. When I ferociously started yanking it out, I elbowed an approaching guy in his stomach. I looked to see what I hit, and the guy was holding his abdomen area. “I am sorry! My bag was caught and I’m late, and I’m sorry,” I said over and over again. He stood upright quickly and said, “It’s okay. I was in the line of fire haha,” he smiled. I politely laughed, and took off. “Sorry again,” I said as I turned around and walked away.
I waited in line for the check-out and kept looking at my phone until it reached 12. It was 11:24. The line moved slowly. By the time I got to the front, it was 11:55. I gave my key, took my two chapter books and went toward the streets of downtown. My dad called me at 12:10. “Hello? Dad are you here?” I asked. “Uni, I just left house. I will be there in 20 minutes.” After confirming where to go with my dad, I ended the call and looked for some place to sit. There was a quaint bench I found, so I put my bag there and looked at the school I would be going to. And to think, I could have took my time to get ready and avoid looking like a hot mess.
My dad finally came, and as I was getting up to lug my bag to the car, someone said “Be careful with that thing. It’s a weapon.” I turned around to see who was mocking me, and it was the guy I elbowed. I laughed and said, “Is this punishment for accidentally hurting you before?” He walked over to me and said, “No haha. Just teasing.” Before I could apologize again, he said “Are you leaving this bench because I’m here? Because I can give you your space.” I shook my head stupidly side to side, “No no no. I’m leaving this bench because my dad is here.” As I began to walk, he said “Well I should protect others from receiving my fate. I’ll carry your bag.” I thanked him and we walked to Boccardo Gate. We exchanged names, discussed majors, and previous high schools, and whether or not we were excited for college to start. He was nice. Really sweet.
We finally got to my dad’s car. My dad came from the driver’s seat and popped the trunk for me to place my bag. My dad waved hello to the guy, and the guy nodded his head upward to establish acknowledgment. “It was nice meting you Uhn-sa,” he said. I could tell that was the first time he heard a name like that. I smiled and said, “It was nice meeting you too Alex.” As he walked 5 feet away, my dad came up to me and yelled, “IS THIS BOY BOTHERING YOU??” I looked over at Alex, who turned around because he isn’t deaf. I didn’t even know what to say. My mouth dropped and I just stood there. My dad waited for me to answer. “Dad! He heard you!” I said while my cheeks turned 4 shades of red. My dad turned his head to the right, and saw Alex looking at him. “Oh, HI!” he waved. Needless to say, Alex and I didn’t talk after that. Since my dad deemed him as a harasser, I don’t think Alex felt comfortable ever coming around me again. In a school of roughly 35,000 kids, running into Alex wouldn’t be an issue, but having your father cock block you…definitely is.
