Last year Joe the plumber prophetically announced that if Obama were elected there would be socialism in the United States. Looking back at 2009, I am convinced that socialism has arrived. Consider the following: I post on facebook that I misplaced my house key and I get a couch to stay in. I need to go shopping, and I get free shuttle service that too with charming chauffeurs. I wish for food and my housemates respond, and I feel like drinking and I get invited within two minutes of writing it on facebook. Cupcakes and cookies appear magically in the office every now and then and no festival has gone without sumptuous food. If all this is not socialism, what could it be?
It all started in February immediately after Obama’s inauguration. I had just written my comprehensive exams and Lindsey called for a party at Taps bar. When it comes to drinking, I suck; but I responded to the call for an evening of revelry. Socialism, as we know, would suffer if there were not a strong party system, and Lindsey is a party organiser par excellence. She doubles up as one of my attractive chauffeurs. Incidentally, without Lindsey around cupcakes and cookies rarely appear magically in the grad bay. They must like her a lot.
Getting back to the story, I met Chellie at Taps. She studies the environment and became my trekking partner. In my first outing with her we scrounged on our hands and knees on snow in search of some ferns and mosses. She’s on a roll when she is gathering moss, and I have seen nothing excite her like those green slippery things. In summer she took me on treks to water falls, swamps, hills, lakes, and the magnificent Adirondacks. Summer has never been more beautiful.
My party life was evolving fast and I started connecting with many interesting people. I should certainly mention the geologists, Thatha and Mimi. They love dating rocks and I love rocking dates, and it is only natural that we connected given this similarity of interests. In this multi-purpose world, they serve as my chauffeurs, squash partners and splendid hosts who guarantee great food and fun. I also met Sripathy, Vikram and Vipul in these parties and we became housemates in August.
Sripathy wakes up early and like good South Indians we start our day with coffee and debate at 6 am. We love arguing and we mean business when we get to it, even if it becomes a mean business at times. Some days I walk into the house to watch heated arguments: “No, I want to cook”, says Vipul; “Dude, I have already started cooking”, says Sripathy. This is a classic illustration of socialism. Vikram promises too cook every week and forgets it most of the times. He then cleans the dishes out of a feeling of guilt. In my socialist spirit, I don’t complain J
If great housemates were not enough, we also got awesome neighbours. Nidhi organises great parties and cooks so much that she has to call us again to finish it. She also organised a trip to the Adirondacks where I swam across a lake for the first time. Her housemate, Stephanie Iyer, is a constant companion for whom arguments are like oxygen. “Women r less likely to less likely to have a high paying job bc they by nature, generally don’t have the attributes that men with high paying jobs do. Prove me wrong”, came an SMS on December 15. Proof by her standards are rather rigorous and I was supposed to send my argument with detailed data by mail. I chuckled at the task that her brother has: to explain theory of relativity by SMS. Socialism does have its drawbacks.
I then met Kristin who I added quickly to my chauffeur collection. I watch movies at her house and dine at her place at least three evenings a week. Like her, the movies she chooses are great to watch and difficult to understand. She is currently on a project to acquaint me with American culture and to feminise me (as if I were a male icon needing intervention).
Between all this fun writing had to suffer and there was a social solution to this too: a writing group. Dana and Diane started coming home to write together and things started falling in place. If all these were not enough there have been lunches with Chris, trips with David, reunions with the D.School gang, singing party, hundreds of hugs from Anya and Dave, a 15 course thanksgiving dinner, nurturing teachers, and the list goes on.
Socialism has not been without its limitations and its evils. The biggest shortcoming yet is that some of my good friends don’t hug enough. That is appalling and I am considering the shameless puppy approach to civilize them. The continued absence of a girl friend in life is unwelcome. That situation has to be remedied. As my conservative friends point out socialism can be evil since it restricts individual liberty. This is certainly happening seen by the fact that I have lost my liberty not to dance in parties. But overall, it seems to be working as I wake up each day looking forward to what’s to come.
To put it à la Dickens, it was the best of times, it was the best of times. Thank you friends for making it such a marvellous year that counts as among the happiest in my life.
It is often assumed that Teaching Assistants are powerful, vested with institutionalised power to instruct, monitor and evaluate. No doubt, these represent power over the students. But this is nothing compared to the power that students have over the TA; a kind of power that is silent but brutal. When a hundred notebooks close silently, it can bring the mightiest professor to a halt. A few glances at the clock or one row of blank expressions can freeze the vulnerable TA and crush his ego at the same time. There is no experience more humbling that the knowledge that you cannot create an interest by discussing world peace or economic collapse when someone outside the class can make them smile with a text message like, “Hey, what are you doing?”
The stakes are high. They decide if you’re cool, if you belong to this place and time, if you are knowledgeable, good looking, witty and everything that you wish to be. None of these, of course, are said in words. I instantly knew that I did not belong when fifty eyeballs turned to me saying, what wrong with you when I asked, “did you enjoy the mid-term?” I knew I was a relic of the past when the polite comment of a student invited muffled giggles from the entire class, “Oh no professor, I am not texting. I am just entering the date of the next quiz in my blackberry”. If they can quash your ego, they can also prop it up. An occasional comment like, “I think it is cool that you use Skype” would make me sigh with relief; I still belong to this generation.
Being a TA is like going through a long trial in front of critical jurors who will decide something more critical than life – one’s sense of self-worth. The TA surrenders his ego to a set of strangers to be tried week by week for months together. We crave for that occasional smile, a question, a moment of engagement or any other small sign of approval every meeting. What is the power that a TA has to monitor a student a few times a semester compared to the power every one of them has to monitor your every word, every week?
We work hard, prepare, anticipate, discuss with the hope that we can find the ultimate strategy to salvage our sense of self-worth. Unfortunately, there is no definite strategy. Each class is a live organism with its own moods, desires and ideas. What works in one does not work in another. It can be a hit in the morning and a flop that evening, leaving the poor TA vulnerable and exposed. Some days its fun and sometimes its frustrating, and overall it’s a rich learning experience that leaves you without any doubt that your control over the world is limited.
And there was that last day of the discussion sessions. The impatience in them was palpable when I took a brown envelope with forms that evaluate me. “When do we get to evaluate you?” asked one student with a sparkle in his eye that unparalleled anything I had seen so far. I felt at that moment that the student’s experience of the TA must be analogous to masturbating…strenuous, painful at times, but it has that one last sweet moment – when they get to evaluate me. It is time for me to retire from being a TA. I may become a full-fledged teacher one day, but it will be with a firm knowledge of my limited influence, a willingness to surrender and the wisdom to enjoy the moment when it presents itself to me.
Ps. Let me add that I had a great time as a TA and I have high regards for my students. This piece was inspired by the good relationship I developed with my students. They started gently pulling my leg on a number of issues and this is my turn to get back at them with love 
My hair-stylist this time was a veteran soldier who had just returned from the war in Afghanistan. It was his fourth month at the hair-styling school and he was learning his skill with volunteer-customers like me who went there for low-cost haircuts. Learning that I was an Indian he said, “I was near there man”, and he told me about his experiences in Afghanistan as he washed my hair preparing it for the job. Our chat was mainly about big guns. I was in the areas bordering Pakistan and we often had issues with Pakistani soldiers, he said. “Did that ever lead to trouble”, I asked. “Oh no, we had the bigger guns”, he said with confidence.
We were back in the chair and it was time to start the haircut. He took the scissor with tremendous care and started going through my hair with the intense concentration of a learner. I could see his hands trembling as he took the scissor close to my ear, conscious that he did not want to hurt my ear. And we talked about guns in the meanwhile. That moment was a beautiful narrative of human nature for me: here was a man talking with great confidence about big guns and wars but with trembling hands afraid that he may hurt my ear.
It was a beautiful girl from Europe this time. She eyed me curiously as I sat down with an uneasy comfort watching her examine me carefully. She went around me and slowly ran her hand through my hair and said softly, “Oh my god, it’s so long”.
“Chop it”, came a chorus of voices from the side in a unanimous agreement. She nodded and they came to an agreement on what to do with my hair. I was reduced to a bystander in their decision about my hair, but not for long. In seconds I stopped feeling like an unwanted bystander to that of an exhibit as three of them converged on me to take a closer look. One of them raised her hand to touch my hair and my ‘curator’ promptly slapped her hand; “Don’t touch my customer”, she said smiling.
I watched her through the mirror as she stood behind the chair toying with my hair. Bending down gently, she asked, “How long do you want it cut?” I finally felt glad to be included in a discussion on my haircut, but before I could answer, she stood with her hands folded, “Please say you want it cut long…” she paused to smile, “I really want to chop it”. I, of course, had to give in to the smile. The job began and I observed her now and then with an askance to see a picture of concentration as she learned her skill at the expense of my hair. In a little over an hour the job was done and I was ready to go. “Can I leave you a tip”, I asked her as I took my purse. “I am going to take the whole thing”, she laughed.
Spontaneity and playfulness gave the place a charm that I sorely miss in the professionalised world today. There were no prefabricated smiles and practised courtesies prepared by marketing gurus; Gurus who look at me like a mere machine and knowing how to stimulate me to get the response they want. This playful world treated me like a person with me being teased and engaged for the sake of engagement. In the professional world that I am getting used to, customer is the king. Playfulness reduced me to from the mighty king to a simple person…and for once I felt, it’s good to not be the king.
Thanksgiving dinner in its original spirit
Published by November 28th, 2009 in Naan fiction. 0 CommentsThanksgiving was originally celebrated in New England when European settlers were helped by Indians to raise native crops that helped the settlers to survive the harsh winter of this region. Two white American friends of mine decided to remember the original spirit of Thanksgiving this season by inviting Indians for dinner, and we responded in style. Two carloads of us joined Melody and Chris, invited by the prospect of a truckload of yummy food. The duo had made so much food that I (a foodie) ended up trying more new varieties of food in one day than I have done in the last two years. Mel (who was the chef) amazed me with her ability to make such a range of foods with equal dexterity.
The quantity of food prepared became apparent to me when in my spirit of thanksgiving I took over as the official dish washer of the event with Ms. S as the dryer. The washer-dryer combination had at least 1.5 hours of intense work, entertained in the meanwhile by some dancers who had taken over the floor. As the dancing went on, I was doing my thanksgiving in another way. After a long time, I was in a party that involved dancing in which another Ms S was not present. This Ms. S is a dance fundamentalist, the kind who believes that dancing is good and everyone must dance. And she tries to get everyone to do it with all her powers ranging from a seductive “I’ll dance with you” to a threatening “I won’t talk with you again if you don’t dance”. It was a thanksgiving par excellence: chauffer driven to dinner, served sumptuous food, entertained and left alone J I should remember this for a long time to come.
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