welcometomysflife

[welcometomysflife]

Regarding the death of loved ones, being in the country and the nickname ‘Poppity’

I’m writing this as I fly back from Lumberton, NC, where my last living grandparent (mom’s mom) and my uncle and family live.  I was called to fly out because my mom told me that my grandma,’Motiba’, finally called us and told us we could come out.  We need permission to visit because over the past 40 years, the relations between the my mom and her 5 siblings have been increasingly fraught and strained, to put it mildly.  We basically have little to no relations with 40% of the that immediate family.  There was some origin ‘big bang’ that I’m not even sure that the siblings even remember the details of. They just remember their grand egos, stiff backs and perceived slights.  Since they’re already predisposed to not trusting or liking each other, even, it has been easy to build lives without each other through the years.

Then, we kids grew up and were like --- what the hell happened in those days? --- and no one is willing to talk about it – using any kind of excuse to change the subject.

The last time I saw most of this family was in 2008 – during my brother’s wedding, weeks after Obama won the first time.

Suffice to say, I don’t really know these people as people – more just as combinations of memory and gossip.

It was under this cloudy sky that I was told by my mom that Motiba had called and told us that she was soon to be called up to see visit her doctor in Philly and would erstwhile move in with another uncle – arguably the craziest and most disagreeable- up there. And before that, we should come out to visit her in NC.   Because we didn’t know when she’d be called away, we decided that my mom should go soon, to visit.  So, she pinched her nose and bought a ticket.  A very pricey ticket.  I was hemming and hawing and wringing my hands for a few weeks – due to price and just not want to go – but finally also pinched my nose and bought a flight – a VERY VERY pricey flight – and flew over for the weekend.

 As far as family weekends go, this was remarkably uneventful.  We ate, a lot.  Like as if there was a family wedding happening kind of quantities and varieties. We also just chatted and slept. We rarely left the house.  This suited my uncle’s family, as they run a motel and are generally just homebodies.  This also suited Motiba, because everyone was under the same roof, in somewhat tighter quarters, making the house feel very full and lively.  It was a unique time to see her with her great grandson, my nephew, playing around.  I always thought that only white people had great grandparents.  Our grandparents just died, tired and worn out. Motiba is the exception – in her late eighties/nineties (not really sure how old she is – she probably doesn’t really know either).  Motiba has always been incredibly resilient – a bastian of determination and effort. She is an uneducated wife of a government worker, with 6 kids and countless extended family members – who would always drop in to eat – who became widowed when my mom, the youngest, was 16. Since then she’s had to live on my grandfather’s pension and the goodwill of her family, children and likely others.  To be honest, I don’t really know what she did for money in that decade after my grandfather died.  I do know that we were desperately poor – living in a very basic government housing complex.  I’ve heard stories from people that knew my mom in that era, that the apartment didn’t even have windows. It opened into a dark hallway and you had to go outside for natural sunlight.  Out of that situation, my mom emerged a great student and worker.  Her success is a testament to what my grandfather and Motiba showed and taught her about the value and power of an education.  I would certainly not be here, typing on a macbook, flying across the country on a moment’s notice to see her, if my mom didn’t know how to survive post divorce, in part by having watched Motiba do it for 40 years.

 That brings me back to this weekend.  Lumberton is a rest stop town, on the north south highway in south-central North Carolina. It is all Indain-owned motels and chain restaurants.  Though my uncle moved his family there from Philly almost 20 years ago, I still think of them as my cousins in Philly that just moved to North Carolina.

This entire trip, though I treated it like any weekend with people I always saw – maybe I’ll come to regret that decision, maybe not – Motiba made no bones about talking about how this might be the last time she sees all of us before she dies.  She, with her relentless sarcasm and play on words, turned a bit melodramatic declaring that she was nearing ‘the far riverbank’, a play on the word ‘kinara’ that refers to borders.  She was shamelessly declaring her nearing death. So much so that she even asked me how I would feel when she died!?  (I gave some equally sharp play on words and got up from sitting with her).  I both haven’t and don’t want to start considering a world without her, nor do I indulge folks who I feel are fishing for compliments. Perhaps she was legitimately looking for some kind approval/legitimacy/declaration that all of her efforts were noted and recognized (whats the word!!!!??), but I’m too emotionally stunted to be able to express those kinds of things without having had a drink first.  And to my grandma, no less!?!  Had I really started it, it would’ve been endless waterworks.  Though I have a tough exterior, I do cry, a lot. Most recently while watching the final act of the stage production ‘In to the Woods. ‘

 I have not considered what it would be like with knowing she was alive somewhere out east, doing her pujas, fasting at least 5 times a month, laughing and telling old stories. She has the sharpest memory and can still tell you the price of a gram of barley from 1950.  She will weave in anecdotes of about some random uncle’s son, who cried a lot during my mom’s wedding…40 years ago, as an add on story to when I would cry, that one cold winter when visiting Philly in the early 90’s.  Apparently the central heating of the building ran too hot, so I would only stop crying when I was walked around in the building’s lobby, and eventually was just set under the Christmas tree to sleep.  Particularly fitting as I love Christmas trees this day.

Motiba is a grad repository of a bygone, and soon to be lost era in my family history.  I’m not connected to anyone on that side of the family enough to be able to go to them for stories on who we were and how we got to be who we are now.  How I got to be who I am now.  Motiba was there through my mom’s childhood, her working, the negotiations around her marriage and the entire marriage.  She was a key player and also a witness. My mom, is almost not qualified to tell me any of those stories and she’ll hold back details, and will have willfully forgotten large parts of her painful personal history.  So what am I supposed to do now? Do I just actually stick to my promise and call her once a week?  Should I be facetiming? Should I have ‘real’ conversations with her – telling her about my struggles at work, in finding my path in life, about my gayness and my love?  Or do I keep it all top level, health and family and work (yeah yeah, its fine!). If I told her my TRUTH over the phone, would she be able to grasp it? Would she lose her mind?  Seeing my uncle with my nephew this weekend reminded me of all of those men that say that their grandfather’s were their best friends in life – my nephew brings such joy to my uncle’s life. I have never see that man so soft and sweet and easy going.  Makes me almost want to reconsider having children – the joy they seem to bring is quite palpable.

Could having a pet get you part of the way towards having that kind of joy?

 Someone posted a comic to facebook today that showed a man sleeping with a dog on his bed.  The man’s dream showed how he had gone through dark times and depression and it was meeting the dog and the dog seemingly saying ‘it will be alright. I am here with you’ that saved his life slowly and brought him to this current content moment.  The man woke up and saw his dog was seemingly having a doggy dream.  The dog’s dream showed how he was abused and abandoned and scared in the world, only to be taken home by a man who showed him kindness and said ‘it will be alright. I am here with you.’  That man, was of course the man in the bed.  

 Is that kind of love similar to the love a man might show for his child or grandchild?  

 Will I even know that kind of love?  I don’t know. Life is a complicated journey – only the universe knows where it will take me.  

I hope that I get to see Motiba again – she’s a living book of my history.

I want my brother’s young son to know her.  I want him to understand that there were people that lived in a village in Gujarat – educated people, who cared for their communities – through whose toil gave rise to him.  That had my mom married someone else, he could have traced his patrilineal lineage to Raavan – the deeply intelligent yet deeply egoistic King of Lanka. 

I hope that I get to see Motiba again because no one will ever love you like your grandma does.  

[welcometomysflife]

10 posts!

I just attended a webinar from Intercom that showcased their smart campaigns feature. And one of the things they highlighted was the easy ability to send someone a reward badge to keep them interested and engaged with your app.  Voila. Somebody at tumblr was listening.

[welcometomysflife]

hello again.

Here I go again.  Many, many weeks after declaring my original intention to write this tumblr. To share my stories. I’m finally back.

What’s amazing is that as I reread my few posts, I was amazed at the writing. It was my story, but felt so compelling. So elevated. As compared to what I think my ‘Voice’ sounds like.  I actually enjoyed reading me.  What a wonder...

Many things have happened since we last spoke. I returned from a once in a lifetime trip to Brazil.  How strongly I feel that sentiment changes with every conversation. I think that I need to boost it’s ‘once in a lifetime-ness’ in my casual conversations, to reassure the people I’m telling it to that how they imagine a trip like that must go, is indeed how it does.  The truth is that of the many places I’ve been, Rio is a place that I would go back to tomorrow.  I mean Marrakech, Jerusalem, Kyoto, Whitsundays are certainly on the revisit list, but maybe not tomorrow.  But seriously, someone please just buy me a ticket back there.  

I feel, oddly, very strongly about this - and I’m not sure why.  I didn’t eat any great food. In fact, I had a horrendous time eating there.  I did not meet a great love. (I left my love in the States, actually).  I did not meet a great LUST, either.  (Maybe I would have, had it worked out differently.  Brazil is definitely that kind of hot house.  Many things can grow wild there).  I DID, however, meet some very kind people.  People who I had wished I could’ve spent more time with, if not for my religious attendance to the Summer Olympics.  I loved being at the Games.  The food was bad. The beer was expensive (for Brazil).  There was social inequity.  But it was everything I had hoped it would be and more.  I loved every damn second.  

Every person inevitably asks me what events I saw.  I always generally say ‘oh 10 events’...but here’s a definitive list that I owe you, me and everyone else.

Mens 7′s rugby, women’s gold medal table tennis, mixed doubles badminton, men’s basketball, men’s team fencing, Athletics (seeing Ashton Eaton win Gold. Oh and Usain Bolt too. (Who dat?)), Men’s indoor volleyball, Women’s gold medal soccer.  

Is that just 8 events? How disappointing.  We took long weekends out of Rio to see other parts of Brazil, so missed some days that way.  However, every day we were in Rio and not seeing the mandatory sights, or too hungover (that one time I drank cachaca until 4 am on a Tuesday), we were seeing the glory of World Sport.  

Team #USA all the way at Rugby Sevens! ^^

I wish I had been able to see road cycling, shooting, archery, beach volleyball, gymnastics and maybe others. But, frankly, I’m pretty content with what I was able to achieve.  The distances traveled everyday above and below ground by all the attendees was astounding. We would travel 2 hours one way sometimes to get to any of the venues from the center.  So we’d be unable to do anything else that day.  It was a sacrifice, and one gladly given to see these athletes leave it all on the mat, field, pool, proverbial dance floor.  It was truly inspiring.  

And all of this coming from a guy who doesn’t really like American sports.  My friends don’t understand me. But pin it as just another eccentricity I carry around, holding my cape to my shoulder. 

[welcometomysflife]

re-entry

wow I really miss being in Brazil. 

[welcometomysflife]

What the fuck, American Airlines?

So, I’m writing this from gate 92, at SFO.  I’m here for the second time in 12 hours.  

Let me tell you why.

I had a red eye flight from SFO to Chicago and then from Chicago to Toronto.  I am going to attend Morari Bapu’s katha there for the next 9 days, as is my tradition every year.  

Note: I fly a lot.  like a lot lot.

I’m at the gate at 11:30 pm waiting to board my flight and get a call saying my flight was cancelled.  I’m like: oh HELL no.  However, I’ve also flown a lot and just figured I’d be put on another routing, maybe less convenient, but I had some time to burn in Toronto, so it would probably be fine.

nope.  no routings.

American said it was due to weather that my connecting flight got cancelled.  However, there was another man who had that same flight and HIS reservation was not cancelled.  That is some shiesty shit.  I think the flight was oversold and that American Airlines LIED to me so they wouldn’t have to give me any thing for my troubles.  Totally fucked up, American.  Why you do me like that?

So here’s to hoping that this new flight works out.  

[welcometomysflife]

Owen Jones, a British journalist who’s also gay, stormed off the set of a news segment on Sunday after repeatedly trying to get the host and guest to acknowledge that homophobia played a role in the Orlando shooting. 

On Sunday, Jones referred to the tragedy as a “homophobic hate crime, as well as terrorism” and “an intentional attack on LGBT people” during his Sky News appearance, but Longhurst and Hartley-Brewer instead dubbed it a crime against humanity.

“But it’s something that’s carried out against human beings, isn’t it?” Longhurst said, adding “on the freedom of all people to try and enjoy themselves.” Hartley-Brewer questioned why Jones would think he has “ownership of the horror of this crime.”

Fight like hell for as long as you can to get them to think about the consequences of their words and actions. But when you can’t anymore, it’s okay to leave the room. That’s a statement in itself, too.

[welcometomysflife]

In 1974, four years after publishing his first children’s book about the close friendship between Frog and Toad, the author and illustrator Arnold Lobel told his family he was gay. “I think ‘Frog and Toad’ really was the beginning of him coming out,” says his daughter, Adrianne. 

[welcometomysflife]

Parker milsap, sylvan esso, sara jarosz - its like you raided all my favorites!

[welcometomysflife]

what the hell is this blog about?

I was talking with J this weekend, while driving to Mt. Diablo for what would turn out to be a horrendously uncomfortable hike.  I was asking him what he thought I would write about on this blog.  He asked some smart questions that lead me to explain that I never considered myself the storyteller or the writer.  That was always my brother (the reader, book collector, language addict and english major).  However, I, being the life of many parties, have always been able to spin a great tale. To recount an anecdote and whip into it a bit of fabulous flourish, to make the story go down easier and to make the crowd go wild.  However, I never considered myself the storyteller.  J told me, for the first time ever, he affirmed to me, that I, indeed, was a great teller of stories and that I should do that.  So, I told him that while I may never do this, have always fancied the idea of writing a memoir.  I don’t know that my life is the MOST interesting, but it is interesting enough to draw great anecdotes from.  And I don’t want to forget the little (or large) episodes that I’ve experienced over my life so far and into the future.  So, I’ve attempted a few times to start a journal.  But journal writing is hard. There’s such pressure. It seems to require such discipline.  (Discipline is something that I’ve always struggled with).  But I wanted to try again, with this blog, to document a bit of what I think is interesting in my life.  I’m not sure if it being a social platform, helps or hinders this effort.  I’m not sure how blazingly honest I can be here.  Folks that know me, might read this. Do I want them to? I’m not sure, yet.  I haven’t made up my mind.  But I think that so far, this feels like a good medium.  Typing comes quickly. I don’t have to edit too much, because I’m writing as I might ordinarily speak.  Perhaps a bit fancier, as it is 1am right now and I just finished watching Charlie Rose. So my words are a bit more elevated. More inspired.  

When I traveled Morocco in 2015, the 2 girls I traveled with would write in their journals every night.  It wasn’t something that I did, but because while they were writing, I wouldn’t have anything to do, I would write too, out of boredom, I think.  I would write pages and pages of detailed accounts of what had happened that day.  I still treasure those pages and am glad for those documented memories.  I have never been able to write that much, daily, since that 9 day trip.  I wish I had.  I’ve lived a hellava life in these past 10 years.  So here’s my attempt to start encapsulating my memories.  Maybe, that memoir will just write itself.  (or not) but I hope that it might. 

[welcometomysflife]

Excellent.

Years & Years Singer Reacted Perfectly To His Music Being Placed In A Store’s “Gay” Section (x)

[welcometomysflife]

No chill

As it turns out, I have no chill. #sorryjesus

[welcometomysflife]

My first post!

Hi world - this is my first attempt (ok second attempt, sorry Xanga) at having a world-facing written social platform.   

I decided to start this tumblr up as a direct result of my friends encouragement and my standard response to their amazement at the things/antics that occur in my life - ‘welcome to my life’.  However, that tumblr handle was already taken, so I specified to to ‘welcome to my sf life’ for my home city of San Francisco.  

I’ll mainly share my general musings on life, travel, food, love, good advice, bad advice, and bad advice disguised as good advice.  All in the hopes of somehow getting some sense as to what this life is all about and maybe tightening up my writing.  I have always felt like I SHOULD keep a journal, but have just failed miserably and keeping up with it.  Maybe this attempt will be better.  Maybe not.  

First comment is to the folks at Tumblr @support - where is your onboarding? I had no idea that my username would be the eventual website for my tumblr! I assumed it was, but then you said it was changeable so it made me think that it was just a username and that I could pick a website name later?  I had to delete my first tumblr and restart.  Not an auspicious kickoff to this little exercise, but we still are holding out hope.