Let There Be Light

As we approach the new year, I am sitting in a shadow of darkness.

For you see, there once was a girl I knew who could walk into a room and smile a smile so bright that it would light up the darkest corners within. A girl who would laugh with such abandon that you couldn't help but laugh with her, whether or not she let you in on the joke. A beautiful brunette who radiated an enormous amount of self-awareness and confidence within the petite package of a cute, bubbly teenage American girl.

A girl who liked Taylor Swift and hanging out with her friends. A girl who was an amazing, incredible soccer player.

A kick-ass sister.

A wonderful daughter.

And I thought she was a pretty rocking niece.

Today, just a few hours ago, we received a phone call telling us that this beautiful, lovely, amazing girl is gone.

She made a decision that I cannot bear to think of.

The finality of it seems so unfair.

My husband, John and I, along with a shattered sea of family is sitting wherever we are tonight, some far - some near from each other. All asking questions that don't have easy or immediate answers, not wanting to believe that this is true. We all feel the sharp stabbing of pain that makes it harder to breathe as we realize that the aftershock of this quake will be felt for the rest of our lives.

I know that I for one keep thinking that this is just a bad dream. Just knowing that there will not be another time, another day where we see that smile is almost too much to bear.

I don't know if her parents and step-parents will ever find the answers they will need. I don't know if life or death ever fulfills that need for us. But I know that they will always honor that sweet girl, the one with the heartbreaking smile and the heart of gold.

I know her brother and sister will mourn her but will also still hear the sound of her infectious laughter somewhere in their hearts every day of their lives.

I didn't have the chance to say it, but how I wish I could have said the following words to her as we spoke at Thanksgiving as she lovingly threw her younger cousins in the air.

You are so loved. You are precious to so many people in ways that you do not yet understand. The joy you bring to the lives of others is immeasurable and the joy you will experience in life is something that you cannot yet comprehend.

You are strong. Stronger than you think. You have people who will hold you up and catch you if you fall. You just need to let them.

You are cherished. Your smile. Your heart. Your mind. Your laugh.

Just you.

You are worth so much more than the problems you have today. Your pain is real and pain will undoubtedly be there in life. But if you don't know pain, you won't understand what true elation is on those moments that I know you have ahead of you. The ones where you soar. The ones where you catch your dreams. The ones where you leap from great heights and land with a grace you don't even see in you yet.

A grace that we all can see and know will only grow with time.

You are a blessing.

Just you.

And you're perfect.

I am still not able to make sense of what is happening right now, but for now I just want to get to the point where breathing doesn't hurt. Please pray for her parents and sister and brother, stepbrothers and sisters.

They got to see that light every day and it will be hard for their eyes and their hearts to adjust to the sudden dimness that overtook the brightness.

We love you, angel. We loved you on earth and we will love you in Heaven. Everyone who loved you will learn to be strong but don't ever stop shining that light down on them.

RIP, sweet Amanda.

Kiran

A Letter to My Daughter From Santa

I said I wouldn't do it. I vowed that this year would be different.

I really, REALLY believed I would change.

But I didn't. I am still the same person who gets sucked into the frenzy of Christmas shopping, gifting and shenanigans that I say every year that I deplore.

It's not that I don't love the joy of giving gifts at Christmas. I do. In fact, it's one of the few times I buy something special and beautiful and what I hope is very meaningful to every person on our list.

It's just that, when I think about my kids specifically, I question whether I am doing it right.

I come from a childhood where I can remember most every toy I was given. While toys and games were not plentiful, each one I had was cherished and appreciated. The clothes were revered and worn till they were threadbare or outgrown. Even then, the next time my family would go to India, we would give it to family members in the remote villages of Northeastern India, where they were worn even further.

I have memories of my Holly Hobby First Oven (My brother bought it for my fifth birthday after saving money from his paper route).

My first pair designer jeans - they were Jordache's (My sister saved up for me from her first job at Macy's). I was only 5 and really didn't know why I was so excited. (Note: On that gift, I think my sis was more excited than me. I was like a real American Girl Doll she could dress up that talked and pooped and everything. Just the Indian version.)

Apparently she wanted toys too.

My husband John grew up in a family where Christmas was everything I ever romanticized it to be. Full of presents, holiday songs, roasts and stockings and all that seemed merry. He talks about the extravagance of his holidays and how special they were growing up.

And I get that.

So every year we go back and forth on what to get the kids. On the ideas - I start small, he starts big. We end up somewhere on the other side of even his big ideas, not the middle, but GARGANTUAN.

Apparently once I start shopping and getting into the true Christmas spirit, I become unfocused and quickly forget my intentions to keep things simple.

And they end up being far from simple.

My daughter is four and my son is two. We are trying to teach them the difference between want and need. I feel like we missed the mark this year a little.

I wrote my daughter a letter to Santa that I want to give her on Christmas night. Some may call me a buzzkill. Some may say this is too much for a four year old.

But I know her. And I kind of think she will get it. And I hope that as she starts getting IT more, maybe I can remember what IT is really about.

Dear Shaila,

Well if you are getting this letter, it is because you made it on the NICE list this year. Congratulations! Your brother Nico made it too! I know that your mommy and daddy are very proud of you and so am I.

This year you got many presents. Too many to count, I even think. But I want you to know that Christmas is not just about getting gifts. It is about being grateful for what you have and showing that by being the best person you can be to others.

You will not always get so many gifts on Christmas. There will be Christmases where there are several presents to open and there will be Christmases where there are fewer gifts.

Don’t ever judge your Christmas by how many presents you get.

One day you will come to know that the best Christmases come from giving. From giving your heart, giving your love and giving your generosity to others.

There are some children in this world who will not receive presents this year. While it’s true that some ARE on the naughty list, what is even more true is that there are some places in this world that even Santa can’t even reach.

Many of these children not only need toys to bring smiles to their faces, they need food. Some don’t even have water to bathe in. Or even drink!

Will you do me a favor and say a prayer for them? I pray for them too, every night with Mrs. Claus. I know it’s not enough but I do try.

One day your mother and your father will talk to you more about what Christmas is about. While I hope you enjoy your many toys this year and that you take extra special care of them, I also hope that you think about something.

Something very, VERY important.

That is this.

Love does not come to you in presents.

Happiness comes from more than just things.

You are more than all of these gifts will ever be. No matter how expensive, extravagant, fun or pretty.

It’s easy to get distracted about what matters most in life, most of all at Christmastime.

If I can tell you one thing right now, which I believe from what I see and from my reports from my good Elf, Brimley, it is this.

The greatest thing about you is your kindness and your grace. Your amazing desire to think of the whole world as your best friend. I have seen the way that you can never answer who your best friend is, because you want to be the best friend you can be to each of your friends.

While I brought you gifts today, just know that what you possess is one of the greatest gifts you will ever have. Don’t ever lose it.

Shaila, presents will come and go. You will outgrow toys.

Never, NEVER outgrow your spirit.

I know this is a long letter. But it is very important that I got this message to you. Please continue to be the best sister you can be your brother, Nico. He loves you very much (though you are right, he doesn't always know how to show it).

You are very, very lucky to have each other.

Listen to your elders and take care of yourself. You will get another letter like this again from me, probably in a year from now. (If you are nice, that is!)

Always remember to believe. In Christmas, in Santa and most of all…

Yourself.

Love,

Santa Claus

I hope you all have an amazing holiday.

Merry Christmas!

Kiran

Sex Ed 101

When I was a kid, I had a lot of strange ideas about sex.

Like many words in my family, the topic and even muttering the actual word were considered taboo in my family. It was a concept that I knew about mainly because I saw people rubbing their bodies against each other if I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of "Guiding Light."

My older sister and I had an arrangement. If I was quiet and let her watch "Guiding Light" then I would be able to watch as much "Scooby Doo" as I wanted.

The arrangement worked for me.

I was lucky enough to watch a lot of Indian movies with my family when I was growing up. Full of colorful singing, highly choreographed dance routines, car chases and gratuitous violence, the movies were an amazingly entertaining way to spend most of my early childhood in a trance in front of the television.

However, these movies were not the best representation of what sex was either.

You see, in Indian movies, people don't kiss. Like, ever.

Ok, so there might be some movies now that have kissing scenes, I am out of the loop. But when I was growing up, it just didn't happen. Not to say that the sex wasn't there. It WAS. But I just had no idea when it was happening, what initiated the action or how people kept getting pregnant.

Did it happen during the dance scene where the woman was wearing a white sari in the rain?

Did it happen during the scene where the man looked deeply into the woman's eyes and placed his hand on her hand?

How come the next scene shows her panicking and her parent's throwing her out of the house for dishonoring the family?

Dude, he just touched her hand. How is that her fault? I thought. And how did that sperm get in her stomach?

Which lead me to believe that pregnancy could happen at anytime. To anybody.

Spontaneous pregnancy.

I was very cautious around men. If someone accidentally brushed against me, I would make sure to wash the body part (foot, hand, shoulder) quickly and thoroughly.

I had my whole life ahead of me. I couldn't be saddled with a kid!

While I knew this pregnancy thing could happen very quickly and without warning, I still had no idea how in the hell it actually happened. I knew that odds were higher once you were married because of increased risk of exposure - for example, hands brushing each other at the dinner table and all that.

While we didn't have the internet, I know I could have easily looked some of this stuff up in the heavy outdated volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica, so I blame myself for not knowing.

Sure, I read "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret." But short of understanding now that I would be saddled with some stupid thing called a period for the rest of my foreseeable life - none of the penises, I mean - pieces (SORRY!) fit together.

Sometimes I would catch glimpses into what this meant. When watching an episode of "Who's the Boss" with my mother (Ma hearts Tony Danza), I was banished to my bedroom during the episode where Sam gets a hickey because it was too risque. I didn't even know what the hell a hickey was, but I knew again that it probably had to do with sex.

Over time, I realized that my assumptions were wrong. Through close observation, I started to note something critical to my understanding the epidemic proportions of pregnancy and the key to prevention.

You could not rub tummies with a man. Ever.

I had it all wrong. It wasn't the hand or the foot or the shoulder or the leg, all which could come in contact easily without risk, even in the most sperm infested environment. It wasn't like sperm was pollen - it wouldn't just float over to you while you paid for your lunch in the cafeteria.

Not even on Pizza Fridays.

A whole lot of tummy rubbing was what was causing these outbreaks of pregnancy on "Guiding Light," "Dallas," and every other show on TV. That dad from "Eight is Enough"? He liked to rub tummies so much with his wife that they had 8 kids.

What the hell?

Watching the scene from "Grease" where Rizzo and Kenickie are necking in the car? Well of course she got scared that she was pregnant. Now I understand my mother's concern about Alyssa Milano's hickey.

Necking, i.e. the touching of necks and exchanging of lipstick from one face and or neck to another oftentimes leads to good fashioned tummy rubbing.

Rizzo must have been so bloody grateful at the end of "Grease" when she wasn't prego because she obviously had been rubbing some serious tummy.

That girl got around. She knew her way around necks and belly buttons.

I lived the first 12 years of my life in the dark on the mechanics of the actual act. Sitting in Sex Ed in the 6th grade next to one of my best friends, I skipped a few chapters ahead to see a picture of male and female genitalia with arrows indicating possible entry points.

"What the fuck?" I said, looking at my friend Danielle. Yes, even though I did not know what sex was, I cursed like a sailor when I was 12. Another day, another post.

My eyes were wide open. I was horrified.

"What?" she asked. I could tell she was amused by my reaction, because I was obviously joking.

"Danielle, why would he put THAT, well THERE? This book makes no sense. " I was floored.

"How do you think it happens?" she asked.

I explained to her what it was really about. How tummy rubbing was the cause of so much unexpected pregnancy in the world. Like most friends would do, she nodded understandingly and patted my hand.

No fluids were exchanged.

No, of course she had to bust out laughing and announce it to the whole room. "Oh my God! Kiran thinks sex (that word, ugghhh, that WORD!) is rubbing stomachs."

"Is she stupid?"
"What the fuck's wrong with you?"
"Why the hell would anyone want to just rub stomachs? How did you think the sperm went in?"

"It just goes through the skin," I explained, not willing to let go. "Sometimes the belly button."

They all looked at me in silence before busting out laughing again. I am pretty sure my teacher was laughing the loudest.

So - SEX - yes, that WORD - and what it meant from a purely physical, mechanical perspective, was fully explained to me in my 6th grade Sex Education class at Jonas Salk Middle School when I was 12 years old.

I would like to say that finally having this knowledge gave me what I needed to navigate my way through relationships with men, but I think I was so traumatized by the pictures in that textbook that I was too hesitant to let go of my tummy theory for a while.

I had my first "real" kiss when I was 17. I almost bit the guy's tongue off, I really had no clue what the hell I was supposed to do. My teeth were like a blockade and nobody was going to get past them. I tried, I really did. I am only person I know who had so much trouble with the act of French kissing.

It took a long time before anybody got to rub tummies with me.

When Nico and Shaila do get to the point where they ask me, I wonder how readily I will walk them through the truth. I think just to mess with them, I should work the tummy theory into their education in some way.

After all, its how they were made.

The Forgotten

Photo: Roberto Schmidt/AFP/Getty Images

The other day I woke up and it was just one of those days when nothing went quite right. The air conditioning was not working and our refrigerator was completely on the fritz. My son, who is perpetually teething or just being "picky" would not eat and my usually sweet daughter was acting like the spawn of Freddy Krueger.

It was NOT a good day.

KENYA

A mother walks twenty miles with her children in her arms. Her husband has died and both she and her youngest daughter have already been raped while on their journey to seek refuge. She is too numb to hurt, she just knows she needs to find water and get her children some food. She has heard that if she makes it to a refugee camp just a little further away, they can find shelter and sustenance and maybe she and her children can make it through this.

Already on the journey they have seen too many frail bodies that have not made it to the destination. The mother averts her eyes and pushes her children, whose blistered feet bleed as they walk mile after mile, just a little further. The sight of blood provides some comfort, because if they can bleed doesn't that mean they are still alive? Her arms grow heavy from the weight of her two youngest boys in her arms as she continues along.

She is tired.

Work was a bitch today. After a busy day of meetings, some good, some not so good, I am ready to sit back with a glass of wine after spending a few hours playing with the kids. The refrigerator repairman came in and told me that it would cost $500 to fix it.

I cringe, especially since the air conditioning breaking at the exact time makes this extremely inconvenient - and yes - financially painful. It's not like I can pick to choose one thing over the other though, right? I mean, what do I ignore, the refrigerator or the air conditioning? As I pull my sticky shirt away from my skin, its clear that there isn't really a choice. Oh, and I need to hit Costco this weekend.

We need more paper towels.

KENYA

We are so thirsty. There is no water. My third youngest son grew more weak and could not walk anymore. He fell to the ground a few miles back. I could not revive him. I could not hear him breathing, but I needed to keep moving with the others.

He is gone.

I hope he is with God.

We walk towards where we have been told there is some water and food. I can't lose another.

By the time I am done with the conference calls and can go start cooking dinner, I realize that I am tired. Pizza again, I think, as I pick up the phone and call our local pizza joint. Heck, we'll even throw some breadsticks in, just to mix it up. Gosh, is that enough food? Let me throw on a salad too.

That should be enough, I think.

KENYA

We are at the camp. We have traveled so far, but there is no water. There is no food. There is nowhere to bathe. There are just so many people, all hoping that they would find their hope for survival here. But we may be too late.

Only three of my six children are still with me. I had to choose some miles back which ones I thought could make the journey with me. I could not lift my eldest daughter. My arms can only hold so much.

My heart can't hold anymore.

There are no tears anymore. There is no water in me, anywhere. I am crying a river inside my heart but how can you cry when you have not had water in so, so long? We keep praying that the rains will come, but they do not.

I have lost three of my children.

I am praying that we can get more food and water at the camps.

My husband and I had a great conversation about how we might contribute more to the world. There are several domestic programs we want to support, but we definitely want to make sure it all makes sense when we do our taxes, so we can claim the right deductions. We should definitely help some international programs as well. Let me look into my company's corporate matching program.

I'll get around to it. Gosh, I hope I still remember tomorrow.

It's going to be a busy day and I have been so stressed.

KENYA

Do people not know how we cry? Can they hear the choked breaths of my children as they breath their last breaths?

If they know, why won't anyone help save us?

If I can save my three remaining children, that should be enough, I think. It's the only thing I pray for now.

***********************************************************************************

As you know if you have been reading my last few posts, I went to the Social Good Summit to learn more about how we can influence change through the use of social media.

During one of sessions on Day 1, I was actually able to watch my cousin-in-law, Dr. Raj Shah, the Administrator for USAID speak about the crisis in the Horn of Africa. He had recently been to the Refugee Camps in Dadaab.

There was a slide you can see on the picture he is sitting in front of. Sadly, he said that the situation was all too familiar for him. The UN estimates 750,000 people are at risk of dying in Horn of Africa if more immediate, aggressive measures are not taken.

"We're on the cusp of a huge amount of deaths in East Africa - it doesn't have to be this way, " says Shah. The situation is further exacerbated by the fact that the current drought in the Horn of Africa are the worst in six decades.

SIX DECADES.

In the picture above, Dr. Shah explained how the mother in the picture was helping her child to eat. The child was so weak that in order to be fed, it had to be done via a nasal tube.

The mother sits next to her child and tries to feed her son. You look at this picture and think to yourself "Is it too late?"

God, I hope for that child, it is not.

What Dr. Shah went on to explain was that earlier that day, that mother had already lost another child.

If you look closely at the bed, he is wrapped up in a sheet on the right side of the bed.

There is a dead child on that bed.

Too. Late.

That picture was up there for a few minutes, but when our eyes stopped focusing on Dr. Shah and the image of the mother and the son, when he pointed out the baby on the bed, there was an audible gasp and then just the sound of silence.

What can you say?

This is happening today. And its so bad that so many will die. The ones who will suffer the most are women and children.

We must not forget these children. Some of us already have. But they are no different than out own children, except perhaps that they are not born in a developed country and they will never have the opportunities that so many of our own will have.

But the opportunity to breathe, drink water and eat seem pretty basic, right?

The opportunity to NOT have to choose which child you allow to die today seems pretty basic, right?

Please look at that picture again and say that you won't accept this.

Please don't accept this.

Kiran

I Say I Want a Revolution

"I am not an optimist, I am a prisoner of hope." - Archbishop Desmond Tutu

I am headed home today after two full days at the UN Foundation’s Social Good Summit, hosted in partnership with Mashable & Ericsson at the 92^nd Street Y in New York City.

I was offered a free press pass and entry into the Digital Media Lounge, because for some reason, there was a perception that more than ten people actually read my blog. Not one to argue or to point out that most of the readers are my family and the others are just people who are too nice to not support my endeavors in writing, I jumped on the opportunity.

There were so many compelling reasons to go. When I saw the agenda, I gasped out loud. Tell me you wouldn’t too?

Check it out.

The focus of the Summit was about expanding awareness for Socially “good” causes while using “social” mediums. Understanding the game changing implications this creates in raising international awareness.

Twitter. Facebook. Blogging.

We are at a place in our society where we are enabled by technology and people's desire to "connect" where we are looking at a true democratization of information. We are not beholden to stuffy men in conference rooms determining our fate - on some level, we are - but the reality is that people are empowered through social platforms in a way like never before.

This is where you start a revolution, my friends.

Revolution.

I checked in at the Summit on Monday and made my way to the Digital Media Lounge, where I met several journalists, bloggers and had an opportunity to rub shoulders with some of the Summit Speakers.

The conference started with a bang, with none other than Ted Turner taking the stage. I had never heard him speak before and was blown away by his wit, his genuineness and his complete "irreverence" when talking about individual and corporate responsibility towards social good programs.

I also had this strange desire to go up onstage and sit in his lap and call him Grandpa. He was just so darn cute! But yes, I know that this would have been odd and I would not only have been kicked out of the Summit before it hardly started.

It also is not lost on me that Ted Turner looks nothing like either of my grandfathers, both of whom were very wonderful Indian men. Ted Turner is pretty amazing, alright. But he is not Indian.

So that was odd too.

Here are some of the gems I was able to capture when I wasn't snorting up my coffee:

On Nuclear Weapons:

"The world is too nice of a place to blow up."

Word, sir.

Word.

On Climate Change & Sustainability:

"More should be expected from us. Clean renewable energy IS possible."

"I'd rather have a nuclear power plant than coal. One might kill you & one WILL kill you for sure."

On Creating World Influence:

"You can't make people like you by bombing them."

"Instead of sending in troops, let's send in doctors, engineers and scientists."

Makes sense, right?

"It costs the US 1 million dollars for one soldier a year in afghanistan - It's crazy! It made sense in the middle ages. There was no TV."

On Individual Wealth:

"My goal is to leave my children enough to cover my funeral expenses."

That will be some snazzy funeral, Mr. Turner.

"Rich IS better. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You have to be able to afford dessert."

Why I wanted to hug him and pinch his cheeks:

"We have to make it together or we are not going to make it at all." Amen, sir.

I guess the biggest message I took away from Mr. Turner's speech (other than that he is really cute, like a little teddy bear - but richer) and something that I kept thinking about was one of my favorite quotes from Mother Theresa:

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."

I will be continuing a recap of some of the most memorable moments of the Summit for myself. Hope you stick around to hear more about it.

Kiran

A World Of Good - Social Good Summit in NYC

For the past two years (give or take), I have blogged about topics close to my heart. Some close and personal, but often times a take on the polarities of life.

The opportunities I have been given as an American which my cousins in the village in India may not have had.

The day to day conveniences (water), liberties (freedom, the right to safely LIVE without the constant threat of rape or sexual debasement).

The fact that any hunger I have felt in my life has been self-inflicted, never because I just needed.

That the images I see of children who are living with the realities of hunger, violence and fear every day seem to far away.

But in a world so connected by images, by knowledge, by technology and opportunity, we are also in a place we have never been before.

Our awareness of these issues is there. There is no reason for us to turn our backs on these realities anymore. You can change the channel, you can go to a new website. You can ignore tweets and you can pretend that its not happening.

You can try, anyway.

Let me know how that goes.

I am at the Social Good Summit in NYC, sponsored by the UN Foundation, Mashable and Ericsson. Here is the agenda.

The speakers list is incredible, kind of surreal.

Ted Turner. Lance Armstrong. Rah Shah, the USAID Administrator. Christy Turlington, Founder of Every Mother Counts. Mandy Moore. Ami Dar, Founder of Idealist.org, Scott Harrison, Founder of the charity water.

Elie Wiesel.

Archbishop Tutu.

This is NOT a full list.

Did I mention I get to see Elie Wiesel speak?

I am blown away.

I am here for inspiration. I am here because I care. I believe we can make a difference.

Will you be inspired with me?

I will be live tweeting from 1 - 6 each Monday and Tuesday - hoping to share this amazing experience with you. We all have the ability to use our connection to the world to help, to create awareness and to make real and irrefutable change.

Join me.

Kiran

To read my more Masala Chica-esque tweets, follow me @kferrandino. For tweets related to measuring social & digital media on humanitarian programs, follow me @measurethisgirl.

My Blanket From Brooklyn

A warm blanket. Your favorite sweater. The jeans which could be called fashion catastrophes, and you just KNOW instantly qualify you as a Glamour "DON'T" if anyone ever caught you in public with a camera (especially when combined with that comfy but not quite trendy sweater) which you just can't throw away. They comfort you in their yielding softness, how they give to your every step and move and have been with you for so darn long.

These are all things of comfort. That bring me enormous happiness.

A few weeks ago, I saw one of my oldest friends, Danielle.

Danielle and I have been friends since we were in the third grade. When I first saw her enter the schools of my elementary school hall, I was a bit awestruck and perhaps a little jealous. She had this long dirty blonde hair that went all the way down her back and miracle of all miracle, no frizz. I self-consciously pushed my own hair back off of my forehead, trying not to focus on the random curls springing all over my head that could hardly be called pretty at the time as I went to introduce myself.

(I would later come to learn that my hair could, in fact, be pretty, but I had not yet discovered that running a brush through spiral curls 100 times a night might work for Marcia Brady. Not so much for me.)

As I drew closer, I observed her big blue-green eyes which boasted the longest lashes I had ever seen. I had already begun to question how fair God was at the age of 8, and this just created a whole new list of questions. My girl crush could have ended there except that when I heard her voice, it cinched the deal. It was like listening to an exotic bird.

"Are you new?" I asked her.

"Yeah," she said. Except when she said it was more like, "Yeyah-uh."

"Where are you from," I asked.

"Brooklyn." Except when she said it, Brooklyn sounded like the coolest place in the world because when she said it there were at least three or four additional OOOs in the word Brooklyn.

"Broooooklyn."

That borough of New York City lost its anonymity at that moment and I realized what a special place it must really be. Staten Island had NOTHING on Brooklyn, I realized.

To solidify our friendship I tried to sometimes mimic my new friend. When she had to go to speech lessons because she couldn't say the letter "r" at the end of her sentences, I also decided to go on strike against the letter preceding "S" in the alphabet.

"Four" became "Faw."

"Year" became "Yeay."

We also cursed a lot. But I don't remember whose fault that was. I think that one was mine, but I'll blame Brooklyn.

Danielle had a sophisticated taste palate. This meant she tried all the Indian food I put in front of her. I thought it was normal for kids to bring things like sesame breadsticks, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto and genoa salami in for lunch because that's what came out of her brown paper bag.

I went home and complained to my parents that I just wanted to be "normal" like my other friends. Danielle was not the only one of Italian heritage in the group and I lamented the fact that I couldn't have normal dinners like them. You know, like pasta e fagiole or homemade italian gravy. (Gravy is what real Italians call sauce. And it tastes NOTHING like Ragu).

As Danielle and I solidified our friendship over the years, I was often exposed to the wonders of her mother's amazing Italian cooking. I learned how to twirl spaghetti with the help of a spoon and it eat it the proper way under the tutelage of her Irish father. She was there to help my through my first crushes (always unrequited). I was there for her every time (it was frequent) a guy liked her.

I was a nerd. She was a cheerleader. I was a runner. She didn't like to sweat. I still hadn't gotten a hold of my hair. She could still walk out of the shower looking perfect.

It just added to the Brooklyn mystique.

I spent many a summer day cavorting in her in-ground pool (Could she BE any cooler?) and some of my best childhood memories are intrinsically tied to her. Some of my saddest as well. Some of my most embarrassing.

She saw boys call me terrible names. Names that sometimes made me cry. Tell me that I was ugly and brown, a nerd and that they would never date a Hindu. She hugged me through those and was my rock when I needed her.

I saw her have the worse nosebleed of her life as we were on the school bus one day with nary a tissue in sight and only our nasty ass gym t-shirts to stop the blood-flow. (She was 13 - no we did not do coke, although we had a preference for Coke Classic).

She has wiped my tears for me. I have wiped hers. At some point her tears are mine and mine hers.

I guess that's the best way to think about friendship.

She is my blanket in a lot of ways. My comfy sweater. The pair of jeans that always make me feel like a million bucks, no matter what fashion is in that year.

But don't get me wrong, she is not an outdated pair of Levis. She is 'still' smoking hot.

I saw Danielle a few weeks ago when I really needed an old friend. Seeing her and feeling the comfort from her hugs lifted me up on a day when I really needed to be lifted. When I saw her face that day, my emotions were free to come to the surface and we talked and talked - about everything, nothing and so much that means nothing to anyone but us - all at the same time.

She brought her two daughters with her and as I watched our children playing together and hugging and laughing with reckless abandon, I felt enormous joy in seeing both me and Danielle in the eyes of our children.

I felt a tug on my heart as I realized how special my bond is with her and how lucky I am to still have this friend in my life.

I hope that one day, our kids know that kind of friendship and that kind of unconditional love and support from a friend in their life. The friend who knows you knows your voice well enough to know when "I'm fine," is anything but. The friend, who no matter how much time goes by, is there for them.

Thanks for being my blanket, Danielle. I love you, old friend. No matter the distance between us, you are always in my heart. Your like a sister, from another mother (aw Fran, you will always be a kind of mother to me. You're just my italian mama ;-).

Thank you for always being a part of my life.

Love,

Kiran

“Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget.” - Anonymous

P.S. I wrote about Danielle a year and a half ago when she was going through a time where she needed to be lifted. I used an alternate name at the time to respect her privacy, but would like to let everyone know who read that post at the time that her youngest is doing immensely well and is just as precocious, lovable, independent and beautiful as we all prayed she would be. Thank you for your prayers at that time.

The following is a photo montage:

Our friends, Monica, Danielle and Me. Notice how she is still my friend despite the inappropriate use of camouflage as a fashion statement. She REALLY loves me. Monica? Not so sure - that's maybe why she stood on the other side.

Some of my favorite high school friends are in this picture. Gwendolyn, Karen, the one who is about to take flight in the center is none other than ME, Danielle, June, Becky.

Danielle and I are in the top right. Notice that the volume of my hair (naturally) is about 4 times the volume of hers. Its like I stole her supply of mousse for a year and decided to use it for that shoot.

Never Forget What We Promised Not to Forget

Last week, in the days leading up to 9/11, I read several Facebook status updates from friends saying that they didn't want to remember and didn't want to be reminded through self-important status messages about that day 10 years ago.

I do not fault them. I can understand, especially if they lost someone that they loved that day. Sometimes you can't stomach to remember and relive something so painful. Especially when you have rebuilt and recalibrated your life.

Of course, there were also those who said they did not want to remember, because as a result of that day, the United States has become involved in two wars that have taken so many more American lives.

And I can understand that too.

But in honoring those who died on 9/11, there is something else we honor. It is that for that day, we were Americans together, equalized in so many ways. We were not Republicans or Democrats. We were not rich or poor. We were not Christians or Jews or Hindus, Buddhists or Muslims.

The planes carried not only Americans, but people of all citizenship, as did the towers. Their pain was something we watched in horror, helpless in so many ways.

So why do we say, "Never Forget"? Its certainly not to remember the hate crimes which rose across the United States in the weeks following, against Americans who looked like they could be of Islamic descent. Its certainly not to remember the words of those like Ann Coulter, calling the widows of 9/11 and the surviving children things I can't comprehend.

Those are not our shining moments as Americans, but perhaps in a way, we should also remember those things - to remember that amidst the consciousness created that day, there are those who gain power and manipulate vulnerability to create greater hate.

We are capable of shining. We are capable of rising.

But yes - there are those amongst us who are always capable of hating. And when you are surrounded by that, it does stunt healing. It does stunt understanding.

It stunts us being able to survive something like this with the grace this country showed on 9/11, should it occur again.

If we can't keep rising, those who espouse hatred such as the Glenn Becks and Ann Coulters of this world win.

There is a fine line between living in fear and creating it. Those who create it for us are very skilled at playing at our weaknesses.

But Americans are not weak. Remember THAT from that day.

That I will never, EVER forget.

And if we fight hatred with weakness and acquiescence rather than consciousness and love and the continual honoring of those we lost, than we are shells of what we were that day.

And we HAVE lost.

We have lost the spirit of the Americans on United Flight 93 who bravely took control of their flight to ensure the terrorists did not succeed in taking down another American institution.

We have lost the spirit of the teams of selfless firemen and rescue workers who risked everything in the hopes that they could save ONE MORE LIFE.

We have lost the spirit of all of the dreams and hopes that died that day.

And those hopes and dreams were not of hatred. They were of lives unfulfilled, of dreams that did not come to fruition.

Let's honor those dreams by not playing into the hatred and fear-mongering that so many moved towards in the days following that event.

The video below is one that resonated to me. Sadly, unlike most things Jon Stewart, I did not laugh, only because it was too much of a reflection of what emerged by some the days following 9/11. This is WHY we can't forget though. Please DO NOT let these people become the self appointed voices for the victims of that day.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Coming Soon - The Daily Show Remembers 9/13/2001
www.thedailyshow.com
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Honor them every day. Not just on the next 9/11 anniversary. But in all of your humanity, every day.

Humbly,
Kiran

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." - Mother Theresa