Masala Chica

We've Moved!

2012-01-22T23:24:00.003-05:00

Brothers and Sisters (pump up the volume). Ooops! Sorry - that just slipped out. (Naturally of course). I have moved the blog over to new digs at wordpress.com.

Check it out at: masalachica.com. There are some things I need to refine, but most of the boxes have been unpacked and the curtains are hung up.

I think we are pretty much ready to open for business :-)

Come on over and tell me what you think. I know its hard to sometimes handle change, but I hope you are willing to do it with me.

When I first started blogging in 2009, I did it within some boundaries that did not always make blogging enjoyable, though that is how it started and that is what I had hoped to gain from it.

Fast forward to 2011.

2011 started out tough and ended even tougher. Ultimately, I went through something really challenging last year. It was hard - so hard. But most of it wasn't something I could share here. And when you have something that consumes you but which you cannot share, it kind of makes it hard to want to write at all.

Let's face it, I don't want to write a blog about the weather. Or the latest "Bachelor."

I want to write a blog about the truth. My truth.

So other than the re-design, I think you will notice some changes. Not just in the layout but in the nature of my posts. I hope to dig just a little deeper, just a little more truthfully than I have in the past.

Thank you for sharing the past few years of writing with me. I have a learned a great deal not only about myself from my writing, but about myself from your insights.

Thank you.

Now, no dilly dallying. Come on over!

masalachica.com.

A Place Called Ideally

2012-01-20T21:50:00.013-05:00

I have always been hard on myself and the expectations I place on myself. There are times where I struggle with the realization that the desire to succeed is in fact some form of self-punishment. Punishment in that I create near impossible situations to accomplish.

This causes me a great deal of angst.

I have always lived in the world of "ideally." I have held myself to an often impossible standard. Some of these standards are driven by societal expectations, others by arbitrary deadlines and confines I place on myself.

Do any of these situations sound like they might sound familiar to you?

******************************************************************************************
Sharing a dinner with an amazing beautiful, brilliant and accomplished friend lamenting the fact that she is still single. Because ideally, she would have met her dream man by 30 (not 40) and had the 2.5 kids she always expected to have.

She is a city girl, so ideally, she would not have picket fences, but a laundry machine would be nice.

Ideal, even.

*****************************************************************************************
A young married woman struggles with issues bearing children. Ideally, she would have had at least two by now, but its been impossible to conceive and the one time she got pregnant, she miscarried so early on. She struggles under the weight of this consuming need to love and hold the child she dreams of.

Instead she presses her abdomen as she shudders from the coldness and unforgiving nature of the womb she has been dealt.

Ideally she wishes God would hear her pleas and grant her this gift so many women stumble upon without even really trying.

Ideally, she would like to conceive, but would be open to adoption.

It's just not ideal. Not to her anyway.
******************************************************************************************

A woman goes to bed alone. Her kids are sleeping and she sighs a tired breath as she inhales her loneliness and exhales out her frustration. This was not supposed to be her life. Ideally, she would have a husband who saw her, respected her. She thought in her twenties that by the time she was thirty she should be married with kids, ideally. Have a nice house and a great job.

Those things have all happened. But her idea of "ideally" is far from ideal. The check boxes have all been marked, but there was so much nobody told her, so much she didn't understand.

She takes off her reading glasses and turns off the light, alone with the thoughts that haunt her every night.

On the surface, it looks ideal. But boiling under the surface, below that layer of her mind where her thoughts run like a river, there is a parallel stream of regret that clenches her heart and makes her ache inside.

I have often chased after what seemed like required milestones in my life with the "Ideally" lenses on. When you put on the "ideally" lenses, they skew things a little. You see life the way you think it should be, the way you want so badly for it it be.

But life is rarely that predictable. And the missteps we often take in our rush to the summit of "Ideally" are often hard to backtrack from. Retracing to a new "ideally" seems impossible for many.

I sometimes get asked questions along the lines of "Ideally, what is it that you are looking for?" I think if you had asked me many years ago, my answer would be pretty clear. But life happens and you realize that the weight of "Ideally" runs the same risks of trying to accomplish perfection.

And perfection scares me. It leaves me in a pile of angst and insecurity, completely unsure of myself. Its a whole lot of pressure that I don't need in the high expectation filled life I lead where I feel I often let myself down the most on unrealistic expectations of myself and others around me.

If you are waiting for perfect from me, you better get in line and plan to wait a while.

Grab a seat.

Bring some popcorn, even.

As a mother, a professional, a business owner, a wife and friend, there are few things I do perfectly. I bust my little Indian hiny trying to get there, but I have come to terms with the fact that both the number of hours and the energy I can dedicate in this life are finite. And my best will just have to do.

Ideally, that will be as close to perfect as I can get.

I bet you are thinking, well you MUST think your kids are perfect. So lets do a brief inventory, everything from their little limbs, to their big brown eyes, to their distinct little voices can bring me to tears.

Because those little limbs can pack a mean punch, those brown eyes can weep tears the size of marbles over not being given the right color Skittle (who knew today was the day Orange was the best?) and those voices can say some pretty mean stuff to a mother, who IDEALLY, would not want her kids to talk fresh.

But I think that perfection is a heavy burden for any of us to bear. I can't and won't be the one to place it on my children, Shaila and Nico. Let's face it, being perfect is damn near impossible and to be honest, its a bit boring, isn't it?

Its great to have dreams. Its great to want things. But I think if we tried a little less to live our lives in the world of "ideally" and spent a little more time listening to our hearts and ignoring the voices in our heads and around us that say things like the things I have heard said to friends below, we'd be a whole lot happier.

"Oh, you're not married? Oh I'm so embarrassed - sorry! You'll meet Mr. Right one day!" Pause. "Or, um, Mrs. Right?! You're not gay, are you? It's just so unusual to find straight women in their forties."

"HOW many kids do you have? Oh, none?! Well, hopefully you guys get cracking soon. Its harder the older you get, you know!"

"When are you guys getting married? You seem perfect together! I know we only saw you together that one time, but I could tell by the way he held your hair over the deck when you puked that he really loves you. You better nab that one!"

"Oh, you look so good. Have you put on some weight? I can tell you must be under pressure. You're just not at your ideal weight."

Give the voice you hear and often block out, the one deep inside you, a little more credit. Give it a listen. And remember, you don't have to follow my advice.

But ideally, you will.

Kiran

Get Your Pretty On

2012-01-18T22:33:00.009-05:00

That's my daughter, Shaila. No, I am not picking lice out of her hair (though sadly, I have my own memories of that and can tell you vividly what RID smells like).

Roses. RID smells like roses mixed with gasoline. And then as if someone took a whiff of those roses and then threw them in a sewer to die.

Tell you more about that another day. It's promises like this that keep you coming back for more, I just know it.

On a more positive note, going back to Shaila.

My daughter is a lot of things. On good days I call her fearless. On bad days I tell myself she takes more after her father. (I don't know why that makes me feel better, John. Just trust that it does the trick and I can get through the day better).

Lately there seems to be a lot more good than bad. Which is AWESOME, don't get me wrong. The thing is, I feel like I am constantly reminded of how everything is just a phase in childhood development. Given that rationale I might have to believe that this includes some of the good as well as the bad.

So I am going to cherish whatever sweetness I can get from her (in case it's short-lived) and inhale her sweet smell which is so much better than rubber cement.

Rubber cement smells better than RID, just in case you want to know.

And just absorb the amazing spirit she has right now.

When I look at her, this is what I see. A spunky dreamer. Kind and loving and ALWAYS willing to share her Legos. Sensitive - I caught her crying during "Ice Age" during the scene where Queen Latifah remembers where she is from.

Shaila, of course, started bawling but would only admit to having dirt in her eye.

Stubborn. Determined. Adventurous, even.

And the best laugher ever.

So my daughter, this little spitfire of a girl - well, she came home and told me something that made me sad. And that I am hoping is kind of a phase.

Listen to this.

Why does this make me anxious?

She has blonde envy.

Like, major, major blonde envy.

I don't know if you noticed, but we are pretty, well, NOT blonde. Again, we are many things and blonde just isn't one of them.

My beautiful, gorgeous BRUNETTE daughter who is four years old, already believes that blonde hair is prettier than brown or black.

She has come home recently to talk to me about one girl in particular in her pre-school class, speaking almost reverently about her "golden" hair. The precious child in question is in fact, quite a cutie. I can already guess she will be in some way connected to the Homecoming court many years from now and definitely has the makings for the cheerleader squad.

I don't remember having blonde envy as a child. I had "pretty girl" envy - which I think is pretty normal - but I grew up in a town with lots of exotic beauty. When I say "exotic," I mean white brunettes - that's about as much excitement that the town of Old Bridge, New Jersey could take when I was growing up. If you went beyond a certain level of olive in darkness, your looks were discounted.

Kind of like mine. And in those cases you hoped that you had brains and sports to carry you through because otherwise, it was a pretty non-rewarding high school existence.

So I was at the library a lot.

But being pretty is more feasible today than it was in the past. Special pills, treatments, surgeries, medical spas that can suck out your fat over lunchtime are all the trend. And why wouldnt they be? We live in a society where beauty standards have become elevated as women "fix" themselves to the point of external perfection. In this quest for beauty, so many women can chase after all the things they always wanted to be or have.

Busty - go get some big boobs. Flabby - go get that lipo done on your hips. Blonde - Dye your hair from brown to ashy blonde.

All doable and in many ways, encouraged by the images our children and yes, we women, see on the television screen.

As a young woman who never thought of myself as pretty, when I got to college and realized that a few people thought I was semi-cute, I tried to cling to those fifteen minutes of pretty as hard as I could.

And it was hard for me to keep my pretty on after I popped both kids out of my nether-regions and found myself frankly a bit traumatized by the whole thing.

I have cheated in the process to keep my pretty on. Shaila sees her Mommy who once had curly hair with Keratin'ed hair that shines and is the straight hair of my childhood dreams.

But the funny thing about dreams, especially when they are shallow in nature and reflect only the most physical change in the mirror, is that they don't really feel all that special. Not really at all, actually.

Shaila may one day want to dye her hair blonde. Or PURPLE for that matter, just to piss me off. I won't stop her from trying to satisfy this need because I did it and well, I feel like she needs to make her own mistakes. I will probably like it anyway - she is my firstborn, so unless it comes out REALLY ashy, I will still let people know she is mine.

She will hopefully learn that its a journey most women need to make in some capacity to understand that there is only so much change you can do to yourself before you stop recognizing - and perhaps - liking yourself.

Newsflash, Darling. You are gorgeous. Like so beautiful that I hurt sometimes when I look at you. I ache because I know there will be self-doubt at times or perhaps reflections of all the things you AREN'T.

No matter what, we embrace you as you are. Don't lose sight of who you are and what makes you so special. Its not going to be your hair or your sweet little dimple on your left cheek.

Its going to be your joy, your bravery and your ability to look in the mirror and always like - no, love, the person you are.

I guarantee you that if you do this, you will come farther than many people ever will.

Mommy will always hold you tight.

We cling to youth and what's not ours,

External beauty as if it matters,

In the end, what we have is deeper

Than any reflections within our mirrors - Kiran Ferrandino

Heartsong

2012-01-10T23:12:00.008-05:00

Do you ever feel like your day just kind of ran away from you? I sit here and it's 11 PM. I know I should be in bed, because I know the trouble I have when my kids get up. I want to stay curled up under the covers and no amount of coffee can make me move from out and under the lovely, comfortable, soft and downy warmth of my bed which all make me want to ....

snore.

Sorry - that's about how easy it is to pass back out in the mornings, so excuse me while I get some coffee.

It's just...

Well, I feel like whether you are a working mother or a stay at home one (I will include daddies in this too, because I know plenty who fulfill both roles), by the time everything (and I mean EVERYTHING, as if I really did sweep every last bit of rice off the floor) is done and the kids are FINALLY in bed, I feel a little like...

"Ok what the HELL just happened?"

Because the day is done. Finito. Pretty much gone. And while I had some great highs in my work day (maybe some lows) and some amazing moments with my kids (or not), I just feel like, when the heck do you get to do the things that YOU need to do. NOT the laundry. Not the bills. Not even time on the phone with family.

I mean the things that make you more balanced as individuals - you know - journaling, exercising, writing, playing music. Just examples, please don't throw a rock at my head because I left off basket-making or pottery or anything. Those are very noteworthy as well.

Everybody has a heartsong. So how do you find yours? Or recognize that maybe it has gone someplace to hide with the sentiment, "hey she is not ready for me now with all this crazy stuff going on, but she will be ready by the time the kids are both in school" so you can put it in the drafty part of your closet right next to the old BCBG dress you refuse to donate because you JUST KNOW you will fit into it again.

Someday.

Are you delaying singing that heartsong or maybe just saying goodbye to your dream?

Are you maybe, just a teensy bit scared? Of not being successful? Of risks? Of what people might think?

Still a mother.
Still a professional.
Still a wife.

But also...

Still a dreamer.

I have friends who have found their "heartsong." It's the ability to take what they have passion for in their hearts and make it integral part of their lives in some way, a way that it is woven in that it cannot be denied or perhaps made into less of a priority. For them, fulfilling these heartsongs has allowed them to live to new potentials they would never have known. Yes - they were mothers, but beyond mothers, they are also artists and needed a push in finding that song.

I think that I want these moments because right now my heart is kind of "skipping" in terms of playing the song. Its got a lot of static and it just sounds like a really crappy recording, probably similar to the recordings I used to tape off of Z100's top 5 at night on my radio/cassette player.

I can hear it, but because maybe its singing a few different tunes, I haven't found my "song" yet.

Is that crazy? Do you believe that you have a heartsong that you were meant to pursue? Something that always brings you back to a dream that you feel is unfulfilled.

Now listen here. If you tell me your heart always wanted to be Eva Longoria, I know that this will be a LIE because she only rose in popularity in the last six years. It needs to be a legit heartsong. A yearning, really. A yearning to pursue something which you have captured and mastered in your dreams in a way that you are comforted by the thought, and saddened by its absence in life.

For friends who I have who have taken that leap of faith, I must say that I applaud you. You are braver than me, and definitely more talented than I will ever be in the areas you found your heartsongs.

You make me want to be brave and own up to my own dreams.

And do you think that maybe if we listened a little harder to that song, and muted all of the other crap in our lives while also paying less attention to all of the areas that we are weak or make excuses for - that we are denying ourselves and our families a better life?

Just because YOU would ultimately be happier.

The journey to find your heartsong is a tough one. Sometimes realizing you have not achieved it makes it hard for your heart to sing anything, even happy Christmas songs. But you are brave and you can do this. Maybe in 2012 we can all listen a little bit HARDER and sing a little bit LOUDER.

It's not easy. Hard things never are. That's what makes them hard.

But soooo worth it.

I may not know my heartsong yet, but I can sing a bra off a drunk girl in a crowded bar. (True story, I HAVE done this). So I think its important that I really give this whole thing a try.

Don't you think you should too?

Dig deep. Don't tell me resolutions. Tell me your dreams. What have you always wanted to do? What made you stop? Could you, WOULD you - if you knew that it was an option?

If you could, but you won't, why not? Are you scared?

Please don't stop dreaming sisters and misters. You are brave. You CAN do it. I will try with you and I guarantee that if we do - we will sing this song in really kick ass harmony together. Like a "Feed the World" meets "USA for Africa" kind of harmony.

Sing your heart out. Just don't let you heart ever stop singing. Even if right now, it may only be a whisper.

Kiran

Bend

2012-01-10T07:00:00.002-05:00

I am really, really flexible. Bendy, in fact.

See this picture of me? It was taken in Hawaii last year.

NOT.

It was basically taken in a place I call my dreams and apparently didn't involve me or any joints. Bones, even.

I am the least physically flexible person I know. In a quest to reach my toes, I am often amazed how ridiculously arthritic and just, well - UNCOMFORTABLE - I look as I try to inch my way anywhere south of my calves.

I have had a lifelong jealousy of people who have the ability to do things like splits and back bends with ease. The kind of people who you might end up sitting next to at the end of your workout at the gym, who manage to wrap their legs around their head while you make a valiant effort to do some half ass stretches.

Ughh, really.

Or that lady in my yoga class who I always manage to stand next to in Bikram. The one who can touch her head to her toes while still looking cute.

There are many things in life which are unfair.

I always felt like I got dealt a short stick. Or, whatever that saying is because as I type this, I realize that that makes absolutely no sense and I am mangling cliches again.

People say, "Oh it comes with practice." Well let me tell you something, sister. Or mister.

I practice. I practice so hard. I bend and stretch and try and hold and push some more and sweat and bend and god, why is this so damn hard?

I just don't seem to be going anywhere.

So, yeah, sometimes it feels like I am not going far. And how it bruises my ego and my vanity to realize that I look far from cute as I aim and shoot and fail.

Gosh, why are my toes still so freaking far away?

Sometimes it hurts me to look at myself in the mirror on these days where I feel like I cannot find that edge - the edge where the "me" in the mirror looks like the "me" that I envision in my head. The one who is not hindered by structural limitations - real or perceived.

Its hard to acknowledge that I well never be a yogi, despite the fact that I can pronounce Sanskrit better than most people in my class will ever be able to. And it feels hard because it feels like I have lost out on my birthright - a chance to bond closer with Indian culture.

Isn't that lame? Oh God! (Shiva, not Jehovah) just don't answer.

Its something that I am coming to terms with. I go to yoga and in my quest to gain some flexibility find myself being the furthest thing from peaceful or quiet in my head. Instead, I focus on weakness and not strength and isn't that maybe being just a little bit hard on myself?

I am not the woman in the picture above. And frankly, that's okay.

So I think I need pack my dreams of ever becoming Gumby away. It ain't happening. I will keep pushing myself, but only if I can do so without punishment.

Because life is not always a competition. And I have to stop competing with this image of the me in my head and the me looking in the mirror.

And when you are trying to be a mother, a wife, a businesswoman, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a neighbor or WHATEVER role we try to wrap and bend ourselves into that day, sometimes you find that there is only so far you can bend before you break.

I am trying to be a little kinder to the "me" looking in the mirror. So maybe I should start now.

So I am looking in the mirror and taking an immediate stab at this. Looking pretty good, sister. Like, many not your full age even. Well, yeah - you do have that holiday weight on you, but that shouldn't be too hard to take off. Right? Hmm. Turning to the right. Your hair looks pretty nice and oh what is that? Yes, that is flour in my hair. Yes, my nail polish is chipping.

I start to take inventory of the house. I am nowhere near ready to do my taxes. My office is a mess and no, I am fine, that is not panic. My voice just sounds funny because this happens to people with tight hamstrings. Oh damn, the laundry is still waiting to get into the dryer.

What else? Oh shit, the Christmas tree is still up.

Stop.

Stop.

STOP.

Breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Shanti.

This year I will learn to be bendy. Not the "bendy" that I don't know if I will ever get physically, though I can keep trying. I will leave that to the women in my yoga class or videos or the Cirque de Soleil dancers. I mean that I will learn to be the kind of bendy that gives in to my life without being so darn hard on myself.

We can't all be Gumby.

But we can all learn to bend.

Kiran

Dip Your Toes in the Water

2012-01-08T22:45:00.001-05:00

I remember going to the ocean as a kid and feeling like I was home. At that moment, it didn't matter that I was an Indian kid growing up in America who never felt quite like I fit in. It didn't matter that I was an American who would never quite fit in on the many trips I took to India - back to the country my parents had come from.

At the beach, the ocean seemed so much larger than anything running through my little head. Because even as a kid, my mind could not just sit the hell down. And I don't mean that in a - oh I was always just thinking about so many great ideas, in my pursuit for intellectual nirvana.

I mean it in the way that I wasn't sure where I belonged. Looking back I recognize it for what would be a lifelong journey with insecurity that many people struggle with.

I tell myself that others feel this so I don't feel quite so alone. (Or so crazy).

Things I think a lot of kids like me might have thought - Why don't I look like my friends? Why does my family seem so different from everyone else's? Why are my parents fighting, AGAIN?

You know, the normal shit most kids think about. Apparently, I was starting my lifelong questo to always ask "why?" for things I would never be able to answer, or were, in fact, quite obvious.

When I was at the beach, all of that went away. I smelled the salt water from miles away as we drove in caravans to the crowded shores of New Jersey. I didn't know yet that the rest of the country didn't always hold New Jersey in the highest esteem and had not yet been exposed to a lifetime of "Oh yeah? What exit?" type questions.

Yeah, so cute. And very original.

(Though I have to admit, at least you can get a geographical sense of where one lived in the often misunderstood Garden State. Let's remember that it IS called that, either because there ARE in fact, many gardens there. Or maybe just because we all have complexes about our garden free exits).

The anticipation would course right through me as I would wait. It was a whole lot of waiting, I can remember. Waiting for my parents to meet up with our uncles and aunties in our separate cars so we could caravan to the beach. Waiting for us to haul our station wagons through the Jersey traffic to the ocean. Waiting for the drawbridge that just HAD to pick that moment to be up.

Oh god someone has to pee.

Waiting to find a bathroom. Waiting for us to find a spot where we could lay out the colorful sheets and for the aunties to start arranging the coolers full of roti and sabji. God forbid we ate any of the food from the boardwalk or bologna sandwiches like the family next to us.

In retrospect, all ok - but I don't know. At the time, I just felt so darn strange.

And then finally, FINALLY!!, the waiting was over. I was free. The ocean was right there.

As the crispness of the wind coming off the ocean and the massaging feel of the sand soothed every inch of my being, I felt whole. The "crazy" was still there, but slightly muted in the unmitigated joy I felt, knowing that I would be running into that water in just a few minutes.

And I would remember running up to the water's edge, surrounded by my siblings and cousins, ready to run right in.

But I would stop.

Because the ocean, no matter how much it called to me like it was exactly where I needed to be - was cold. Sometimes colder than I could handle. And I wasn't always ready to be caught in the undertow. The few times that I had gotten caught in a wave still scared me, scared me the way I would never eat my mom's fish curry for fear of that time I got a bone stuck in my throat.

For you see, when you are 5, these things kind of stick with you.

But no matter what - no matter how much I still could hear the thoughts in my head asking why does nobody look like me, why can't I be like everyone else, why do I feel like my family is so broken, why am I surrounded by so much shouting all the time, why, Why, WHY?! - kind of way - I was finally home.

And as I would walk towards the small waves breaking on shore and put my little toes in while the water rushing back to the ocean pulled the ground away from under my feet, I came to realize that for me, life would always be a little of wanting to run towards what I know I couldn't control. That I would want to be in situations where the ground was never quite stable under my feet and where it was okay if things got messy.

The loud crash of the ocean was louder than the clashing voices raised in anger at home, the tears and the heartache I seemed to know too well at the age of 5.

This was the time, MY time, where I was just a normal kid, eating a roti with bhaigan bharta at the beach.

And eventually, once my toes were in the water, I would rejoice in something bigger than me, bigger than I could comprehend and surrender to what I knew I would always have to surrender to.

Home.

Kiran

Let There Be Light

2011-12-30T23:02:00.013-05:00

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

2011-12-22T16:38:00.010-05:00

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

2011-12-20T06:30:00.005-05:00

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

2011-09-22T20:12:00.016-04:00

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

2011-09-21T20:57:00.011-04:00

"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

2011-09-19T10:30:00.005-04:00

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

2011-09-14T11:00:00.001-04:00

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

2011-09-13T10:09:00.009-04:00

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

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor & Satire Blog

The Daily Show on Facebook

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

Lost Treasures

2011-09-12T22:35:00.007-04:00

When I first started blogging, a few ago (and much more zealously than I can pretend to keep up with nowadays) I made blogging friends with an incredible woman named Anna.

Writers connect, support and live alongside each other in the blogging world. Sometimes we visit each other because we love each other's writing. Other times we creep to each other's sites and just as silently creep away, keeping a vigilant eye on our friends, but perhaps not feeling worthy to comment on the particular post of the day.

One of my first blogger friends was Anna See (a pseudonym) from "An Inch of Gray." She lost her 12 year old son last week, Jake, during the floods that overtook Northern Virginia.

I don't ask you to comment here today. I don't know what you believe in, but if you have faith in something, I would appreciate that you raise a prayer, a hope, a wish - a light for this young boy.

And this lovely, amazing family.

Its crazy how quickly our lives change. A missed step, a road not taken. Life is full of sliding door moments that can change the substance of our lives in seconds. How I wish that those seconds were different.

There is nothing to take from this post except an ask from you that you hug your children harder and say a prayer for a family that needs to be lifted right now.

When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure. ~Author Unknown

XOXO,

Kiran

P.S. Comments are turned off. Please say a prayer instead. Thank you, so very humbly.

Just. Fine.

2011-08-25T14:07:00.007-04:00

Authentic.

It's something I try to be, but sometimes I fail miserably.

To truly be authentic, you have to not care about what people think, not care about how they might judge you, not care about how people perceive your words.

I think of being authentic as just being me.

But the reality is that it's hard to truly be "authentic." Its hard to reconcile that I do care what people think, I do care how I might be judged and I do want my words to matter.

There are days when I write. And I re-write. And I backspace. And I edit.

And then I dump the piece I wrote or just keep it for myself.

I think, nobody wants to read that. Nobody cares to know that. And having an internet persona does not mean that you shouldn't have some boundaries. Right? I think. After all, we all have lives outside of blogging or social media - lives that are not made solely of ourselves, but friends, co-workers, family that all may have to deal with our need to be authentic.

But its not just about writing. It's about how we represent ourselves everyday.

Authenticity is rarely what you see on Facebook. It's rarely what you can uncover in that meal you are having with your girlfriends after finally making time for a girl's night out after four months before you all rush back home to relieve the babysitter. It's generally not in the automatic response that comes to our mouths so often when we are asked how we are:
"I'm fine."

Like an automaton, I find that the words, "just. fine." are how I feel I need to often justify my existence. I have family I love. I am well-fed, clothed, educated, and have more opportunities in this life than most people will ever see.

So I should be fine, right? Why should I take that opportunity, even when its from a friend to say something like the following?

"Well, damnit, it's been a freaking shitty, shitty month. Something is breaking in our house every day and I don't know what is going on with the kids, they have both been acting up so much sometimes lately and oh, my god, I just feel like there are days I want to yell and kick and scream and be like, leave me alone people! And there is other stuff going on, but I don't feel like I can talk about it so I am holding it all inside and one day soon, I will most likely release all that pent up anger and snap when the kids are watching an episode of 'Bubble Guppies'. Cuz that's how I roll these days, damnit!"

But I don't. And I won't.

So I say,

"I'm doing just fine."

There are days where I realize that what I say is often not very real. It's far from authentic. It's far from true. And maybe those days, I truly don't feel that way at all.

"I'm fine!"
"I'm great!"

And then I smile and change the subject.

It would be one thing to say that you don't need to share everything with the internet community, be it 5 or 5000 readers you have daily. But its another thing when you realize that you have trouble being real with the people you love most.

Authentic.

Sometimes I fear being authentic. I feel like when I play the part everyone wants me to play, everybody is much happier. Why rock the boat?

The reality is, the people who really matter, want us to be true to ourselves. I'd like to think that anyway.

I mean, unless you're a total asshole. Then maybe you can just try and pretend just a teeny bit. Just like, that much.

Here is to trying to be more authentic.

And for everyone who has ever felt just a tinge of jealousy when looking at an old friend's profiles on Facebook, here is a thought to make you feel a tad bit better.

Namaste,
Kiran

Does Heaven Show Up in Your GPS?

2011-08-18T10:36:00.008-04:00

Today is a day that will forever hold a place in my heart.

Last year on this day, we lost a boy that we cared about very much. His name was Declan Black Carmical. He had a brain tumor that was detected when he was 4 months old and he lived the remainder of his life mostly separated from his twin brother, undergoing surgical procedure - one after the other. He often had treatments or surgeries on the same day.

Somehow through it all, his smile never went away. He continued to brave the pain and if you have followed his journey, you will see how often we continued to be blessed by his smile, his quiet laughter and the uncanny awareness that shown vividly behind those gorgeous blue eyes.
As Sherri posted in her blog today (please read to understand the strength of this family), there are so many images we can cling to. Images of bandages and open wounds, of the never ending tubes or the dire warnings that they continued to receive from doctors, who were unprepared to customize treatment for Declan because they just didn't know how. Pediatric cancer is often a black hole and there have been so few advances that can protect us the next time a "Declan," or a "Taylor," or an "Evan" is diagnosed.

Last night, I was putting my four year old, Shaila to bed. She wanted to know if we could do some special things like go to the mall, go to the pool, paint the house pink and have her imaginary unicorn over for dinner the next day.

You know, normal things.

I explained that today we would be working a large part of the day on getting our street prepared to honor Declan and give everybody a place to pay their respects to him. We would have lots and lots of balloons, lots of artwork and places for people to write their special messages to Declan.

A tribute, not a mourning. Though the lines are blurry for all of us on this.

The following conversation was one I really didn't know how to steer.

Shaila: Mommy, remember last year when we released all those balloons? Those were all for Declan right?

Me: Yes, Shaila - those were for Declan, so he could see them from Heaven and know we were sending them to him.

Shaila: Mommy, is Declan a baby?

Me: Well, Declan was a baby. And then God decided he needed Declan's company to be one of his angels. Declan is with God now.

Shaila: Is he still a baby? Or does he look more like Cole now? (Cole is Declan's twin brother).

Me: I'd like to think he looks the way God wants to keep him, and of course he has wings. Yes, he has wings. (This is really not my territory, people. I am feeling like a complete impostor on my theology lesson.)

Shaila: Mom, I want to go visit Declan in Heaven. How far is it?

Me: It's a lifetime away.

Shaila: Is that farther than South Africa?

Me: It depends on the length of your life and your mode of transportation. But yes, it is much farther than South Africa.

Shaila: Mommy, I miss Declan. I can go hug Cole, but its not the same.

Me: You SHOULD hug Cole. And you can send your hugs and kisses to Declan every day. Just look up at Heaven and know he can see and hear.

(Please note: I am neither a religious person, nor am I any expert on theology, however, I felt this was the best way to respond last night. If you have better ideas on what to communicate to your children, I would love your advice)

The Carmicals are taking everything one day at a time. One step at a time. There is so little that I often feel like I can do. But can't we get them to the lead in the Vivint challenge so that they have this one victory, one that would mean so much the day after Cole and Declan's birthday?

Please, please, please - gosh I will beg and ask for this favor tirelessly. Please vote - www.vote4acure.com. Please ask all your friends. Please ask your neighbors, your church members, your family, your entire Facebook community.

Last year, when the Carmicals were going through this nightmare, thousands of supporters on the "Declan's Journey" blog and fan page asked "What can we do?"

There were thousands of people asking.

And we are struggling to get a thousand people to vote a day.

Please, remember what you felt the day you offered that help. Of course we move on, of course we get a little less teary as the days pass. But the Carmicals are not asking for money. They are not asking you to run 50 miles.

Just click on the vote button, every day. Now until the 27th.

www.vote4acure.com.

So humbly asking you.

Love,
Kiran

Baby Declan Carmical 08/26/09-08/18/10

2011-08-16T22:47:00.006-04:00

Before I say anything. blast this. Would you?

(glad i got that out. Clearing my throat to be polite now)

Dear All,

It's crazy to think its been a year. A year of sadness. Of rebuilding. Of re-prioritizing.

A year of inspiration as we have seen an amazing family who has touched us all take something SO, SO hard and turn it into an opportunity.

An opportunity to help us all comprehend that we have to do more, to recognize how precious life is.

(Am I projecting? Doubtful. I think you all know what I mean).

How many of you can say that you don't look at things and nuisances just a little bit differently? How many of you can say that there haven't been nights where you hugged your kids that much harder? Because they CAN be a pain in the ass. Because you have the privilege of them pissing you off. And giving you deepest sense of contentment as their arms wrap around your neck before you put them to night.

Because they ARE there. In their glory, in their honesty, in there very being.

Thursday night marks the one year anniversary of Declan Carmical's passing. To say that it was premature is an understatement.

To say that his passing hasn't changed the way many of us look at the world, our children, OUR lives is an greater understatement.

Let us honor Declan. Let us honor the Carmicals. Let us honor every child who can't BE while our children ARE. Life turns on a dime. We have to care.

Please come out friends and family.

Here's what's going down on the 18th:

1) At 6 PM, Thursday the 18th - we will all meet on Withers Grove Court, Ashburn VA.

2) Parking should be plentiful on Ridgeway but if you are here early - there will be space on Withers Grove Court.

3) Please wear Yellow (Pediatric Cancer colors) and/or Blue. When Declan passed, we released yellow & blue balloons and wore blue ribbons so it is a symbol of what we remember. If its a Journey 4 a Cure shirt or Declan's Journey shirt - that is great. Get creative!!

What do you need to bring?:

1) Your love

2) Your support

3) Your hope

4) Your encouragement to the Carmicals and families who have to face this.

Basically - just you, your family and your hearts.

What will we be doing?:

1) Our neighborhood will be decorated by the children of our street to mark their love of Declan. If you would like your children to participate, or would like to help yourself, at 2 PM, we will begin blowing up hundreds of blue and yellow balloons (not for immediate release, but to decorate the street).

2) We ask you to think about what you would like to say to Declan, or to the Carmicals. There will be something for you to sign to commemorate your participation, support and love, which none of the families affected by pediatric cancer take for granted.

3) Bring your creativity and love.

4) After everyone writes there individual messages to the Carmicals and/or Declan, you will be given a balloon. It is your choice to release or not. There is beauty in either and all we want is your presence and love.

What won't be there?:

Because we don't yet know how many people will be attending, organizing food, beverages, etc. will be a challenge. We encourage everyone to come with drinks for you, your children and snacks. Once we begin festivities at 6, we expect everything to "wrap" by 7 PM.

THANK YOU.

For being part of this journey.

What if you don't live near us in Ashburn, VA?

Please put together a similar event. Wherever you are. However large or small.

If you can't do that, please say a prayer for the children of the world who don't know what opportunity is because they hear the word "cancer" so young.

Say a prayer that no child should ever, ever, EVER have to comprehend those words.

We CAN stop this.

VOTE FOR A CURE

Every day from NOW until August 27th.

Look - I don't care if you are worried about putting too much "noise" in your facebook feed.

You can vote EVERY day without reaching into your wallet.

You can help find a cure for pediatric cancer.

You CAN educate friends. You REALLY, REALLY can.

Please.

For Declan.

Love,

Kiran Ferrandino

(on behalf of the Carmicals and the extended family on Withers Grove Court)

(Who am I? an overzealous friend and neighbor of the Carmicals - in case you were wondering ;-)

Thinner.

2011-07-17T14:20:00.008-04:00

I have struggled with food my whole life.

When I was little, I didn't want to have anything to do with it. It was more of a nuisance that interrupted the time I would rather spend playing.

As a pre-teen I abused it and found comfort in it, mistakenly thinking I could fill the empty places in my heart with another bite.

My junior year in High School, I walked away from it and found power in turning my back on the calories and embraced the solace in running.

But I often didn't know what I was running from.

Or to.

In college, I mistakenly followed what I jokingly called the "Sorority Girl Diet," eliminating fat but eating my fill of jelly beans and bagels and ensuring that beer was part of the regimen (at least from Thursday - Saturday nights).

I would like to say I found my way in my 20's.

But as I sit here in my 30's, with two impressionable children who I have the power to influence, I realize I am just as messed up today in how I view food as I was in my teens. Not much has changed.

I can't remember a day when I thought I was "thin enough." Even as I look back at pictures of myself when I was my fittest, I try to remember what was going through my head at the time the pictures were snapped.

Not good enough.

Not pretty enough.

Not thin enough.

Ever.

My husband asks me to acknowledge this strange relationship I have with food. Perhaps he didn't want me to write it on this blog, but oh what the heck. It's hard to admit to crazy, but I can truly say that when it comes to food, I have always been a nutjob. Completely.

Utterly.

I sometimes feel shame that as someone who has seen poverty first hand, in such extreme circumstances in the villages of India, that I would reject or abuse what so many people don't have access to and are literally starving for.

I bought a magazine at the store the other day. Like a junkie being pulled in by a vial of coke, I found myself adding it to my cart.

"Starving to Be Sexy" the cover said, showing images of celebrities who have fought their battles against any body fat and appear to be successful, flaunting clavicles, pelvic bones and ribcages that defy any unwanted calorie to even try to slip by.

"Isn't this crazy?" I showed the magazine to my niece when she came to visit me.

"Yeah, but it's what people expect. Of course they feel the need to be thin."

As I found myself being drawn back to the magazine, I realized that it's not so much that I think those celebrities are crazy. The rational part of me does, of course.

But there is also this part of me that relates to them. And where I have never been able to get "thin enough," these celebrities have.

And it made me jealous.

How does this happen? I ask.

I think of myself as intelligent (reasonably). Not vapid (most of the times). Rational (cyclically).

The irony of one of the images actually made me laugh. One of the celebrities on the "Starving to Be Sexy Cover," is reality show actress, Audrina Patridge. Wearing the same bikini that she recently wore on this month's cover of Shape Magazine, a fitness magazine. One of the other celebrities touted as "too skinny," Leann Rimes, just appeared on the cover of Shape Magazine, perhaps five or six months ago.

So let me get this straight. On the one hand, we look at these images and are being told that these women have gone to an unhealthy extreme. At the same time, we will see these same women highlighted on covers of purported "health" magazines.

It's confusing, right?

I realize that the things I say glibly around the house are making an impression on my daughter. And that I need to ensure she doesn't have this same messed up relationship with food that I feel like I have had.

So I try not to say things. I try not to show her just how preoccupied I am with food labels or show her any of my insecurities I feel when I look in the mirror.

And I hope she never goes through these mindless cycles that I have gone through.

Self-loathing when I "cheat."

Hunger when I punish myself for not being strong enough.

Judgement when the scale taunts me with a number I want to deduct another 10 pounds from.

Or maybe even 15.

I am writing this post to say that I am one of many women who is too hard on herself. Too quick to judge myself. Too quick to punish myself. Insecure enough to buy in to the images that are telling me what society values in women.

But one thing I am NOT is a woman who plans to keep her subscription to Shape Magazine.

After years of trying to embrace healthy, I think that it's time to acknowledge what "healthy" really means. And its not about the photoshopped celebrity on the cover.

It's about acceptance.

XOXO,

Kiran

Humbled

2011-07-06T22:09:00.009-04:00

I'm the person at parties telling jokes. I make people laugh. I find comfort in being self-deprecating and if I cannot make people snort their beer out of their left nostril at some point, even if it comes down to mocking myself and own faults, I feel useless.

Because you see. That's my job.

I bring the funny.

Sometimes, but not lately. And Masala Chica, my alter ego, has just been a hot mess. If you haven't seen that, make yourself a drink and have a little think about that.

Obviously, lately I have not been funny. Probably a bit sad, a bit depressing. After all - who really wants to talk about cancer? Much less baby cancer.

Yes, baby cancer.

There.

I said it.

Not funny, right?

Pediatric cancer is cancer that affects babies, whether they are one day old, one month old, 5 years old or entering their teens. Do you have any kids that age or who fall in between? Gosh, do you have any kids on your street that age or in your family?

God, it's just asinine, right? Why the hell should we talk about this when we can talk about the really, REALLY important stuff? Like what sunscreen we should be using (ironically to later prevent cancer, right?) or how to buy the best organic meat? Let's talk about how great Jennifer Aniston looks past forty or if she is on again with that guy whose name I can't ever freaking remember.

(All important, thank you very much).

A week ago, I did something I usually don't do. I humbly opened myself up and sent a letter to some bloggers that I consider to be friendly with. Some are real life friends, some are friends who I have gotten to know online.

I say "humbly" because I hate to ask for help. Seriously. Like if I have ten bags in one hand, my screaming son in the other, my four year old daughter kicking me with her tap shoes and my phone ringing in my purse, if someone tries to hold the door for me, I will feel guilty taking up their time.

I don't know why and I don't know how, but I feel unworthy oftentimes about asking for anything.

So last week, I sent out an email asking for support for the Vivint Gives Back Project, where I have been very personally and actively trying to raise awareness for pediatric cancer. The cause is to potentially raise a quarter of a million dollars for Journey4aCure.

If you haven't heard of them, please look them up.

Of course, I did not expect everyone to respond. Nor did I expect all the bloggers to post the banner for Journey4aCure on their site. If they did, I was ecstatic and said thank you once they responded that they had. I was not planning on going to look on anyones' site afterwards to see if they did, it was just a very simple "ask."

And I get it.

I understand that people might be concerned about linking their readers up to an organization that they don't know that much about.

Totally understand.

I also understand that people's blogs can be "sacred." I learned this from my mother, who now has a blog. And her next door neighbor's dog, who also has one. Oh yeah, and the ant that resides up that dog's ass who also has a blog.

Everybody's got a blog these days.

They are kind of like assholes except they are generally not as exciting.

I also understand that people might be concerned about how their information can be used. Maybe you don't know this about me, but I spent the past 6 years of my life working in the web analytics industry helping Fortune 100 companies figure out how to use customer channel (web, demographic, multi-channel, campaign) data to better market to their customers.

For good, not evil, of course.

Some people might even say I am one of the more experienced people in the web analytics field.

Anyway - for the past few days, a blogger who has been a personal friend for quite some time has been vacillating about putting the banner up on her blog. Several questions had been asked and there was some back and forth. I found myself just wanting to say - it's ok - you don't HAVE to do this. I almost was sorry I asked and wanted to retract my request for help.

It was a big leap for me to have requested it in the first place.

Today, I was officially sorry that I asked.

After being sent a very detailed message about why she and her blogging partner did not support Vivint (which I honestly will tell you - I don't know much about. I can tell you that they do security. And they are giving away 1.25 million freaking dollars to charity. Journey4aCure is not that far away from winning $250K if we can mobilize quickly enough), I just told her I was disappointed.

Not because I think her blog would "make" or "break" this competition. Not because I don't get that she is "branding" herself in a particular way.

But because if she had never ever said anything, I would have never even cared.

The reality is I didn't need an itemized list of why she felt her brand could or would not put up a banner for something that I HAVE become so personally affected by.

Do it. Or don't.

To ask me if it is worth "damaging our friendship for a few f'in clicks" tells me that she really doesn't know me at all, even after many years of "knowing" me.

And you know what? That sentence (you know, about the f'in clicks), was preceded by several others which reduced me to wanting to retract a whole lot more. They made me cringe that I had ever asked for help for something that was beyond me, that meant something so grave, that is more than just a quarter of a million dollars for pediatric cancer research.

This contest has never been about clicks.

It's also never been about whether people will like my blog more or not. At this stage in my life, I could give a rat's ass if you like my blog or not. If you do - I appreciate it. if you don't, I also understand.

You know what it's about for me?

Last year, this boy who I loved DIED.

His parents are two of my best friends.

They live with their grief every day.

I can't do enough.

Not hardly enough.

These words don't matter. At the end of the day, my blog is just a blog.

And so is yours.

My kids are healthy. I pray they always will be.

Perhaps I have channeled more into this "contest" than most people think is normal. Perhaps some of you think I have gone off the deep end.

It's never been about "f'in clicks."

Thank you so much to those who have helped. I really appreciate it. I know what it means - surprisingly (given that I probably have like 3 readers) - I get emails every day from people who think I am much more influential than I am - asking to review a product, support a new service or post a video for marketing purposes. And I can't always say yes or even respond.

So, thank you. It makes me realize that even if its hard, its worth it to ask for help.

And for that, I AM humbled.

I know its not easy to say "no." Granted, I also don't ask these organizations for a detailed business justification and go back and forth six times. I usually just say, "No" or don't respond, especially if its a mass marketing thing.

And to anyone who thought that anything I have written about in these past few posts has been about a few "f'in clicks," I am glad we got that out in the open.

Life is too short.

Sometimes, breathtakingly, heartbreakingly so.

This year has taught me that much, if nothing else.

Humbly yours (with a bit of an attitude tonight)

(And perhaps with a few less Facebook friends than before.)

Kiran

The ties that bind.

2011-06-29T21:32:00.008-04:00

I have not always been a good friend. In fact, I would say that I have been fairly selfish at points in my life and unable to relate to grave situations that my friends were in. I would stick it out until my emotions went past a comfort level I deemed acceptable before I responded in the only way I knew how.

retreat.

My close friend in college, Lauren, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer as we were moving into our Senior Year apartment together. She had to move back home while the other three roommates got used to the fact that one of our party was missing, for all the wrong reasons, as she battled aggressive, progressive and every possible form of treatment back home in Boston.

Times like these can bring out the best in people... or they can bring out the worst. In our situation, while the three remaining roommates were all good solid people in our own right, the weight of the situation coupled with other key transition points in our own lives created a really shitty and unsupportive environment as we all struggled to make sense out of what was happening.

We found ourselves arguing about inane things. We would gossip when there was no place for gossip and create alliances (easy to do when there is an odd dynamic of women), leaving the third one out. It was so "Survivor-esque before any such show existed, and while we may have been battling the gentrified battles of UVA, knowing one of our own was battling an obstacle with odds of survival so low, we should have been above that. This news we received the day before we went down to school hit us like a ton of bricks that none of us expected our 4th year of school.

I can't say that it didn't make sense that I ended up being the odd man out that first semester - I was going through a myriad of my own issues and was very self-absorbed. I will admit that, though I can't say that I was the cause of all of it. However, there came a point where a series of misunderstandings lead to this imbalance in the house and I just felt better off alone. So a cycle was created and communication reached new lows for all of us.

When Lauren returned second semester, dedicated to beat her prognosis and battle her cancer so she could graduate - a weight was lifted in our apartment, but not for long. Things continued to bubble beneath the surface and while we tried to shield Lauren from the tensions that had been growing in her absence, we did a shitty job of hiding it and she was more than aware.

When school ended that year, I could not run fast away from the University that I had adored from afar and that I had embraced with so much might when I entered its grounds 4 years earlier. Me, a little Indian girl from NJ who made it to Thomas Jefferson's center of excellence had kicked some ass for sure. I should have been proud. Instead, there was a stain on my soul and the experience I just couldn't wash clean - I needed to leave.

After graduation, we moved up to Arlington, VA. Lauren moved back home with her family in Boston. My ex-roommates (continued to live together still) remained friends and settled a few miles from me in Arlington, but our relationship had become so strained and I was neither mature enough or strong enough at the time to address it.

So I did neither.

At a time where I should have said, "Screw it. Let it go," I instead was proudly holding on to my place as a victim, in a situation where there was no place for a victim.

Because really, the only victim was Lauren and she never, ever acted like one. Not once.

And I started to avoid Lauren because of her ties with my ex-friends, pretending it was for selfless reasons. When she came to visit - I excused myself, saying I didn't want her to be caught up in our drama. It was best if I just disappeared and allowed her to seek comfort with them.

I ignored the other two if I saw them downtown. I would pretend I didn't see them as our hands accidentally brushed over the same sweater in Banana Republic. They did the same, but it didn't make me happy and it wasn't something I was proud of.

In 1999, I was told by a friend that Lauren had passed away and had succumbed to cancer. I was told that one of my ex-roommates wanted to get in touch with me but didn't know if I wanted to be reached.

I called her that same day. She picked up her end of the line.

"Rachel? It's me. Kiran." The phone was quiet and I was certain she was ready to hang up ...

"Hi. I am so glad you called me."

"What happened? How was she in the end? Was she in pain? What was...?" The tears started rolling down my face and Rachel answered all my questions as best as she could.

My questions were endless.

Rachel could have used this time to tell me what a coward I was. Instead she told me everything about Lauren's last few months and her ultimate rejection of later treatment so that she could live her last few days without needles and any more pain than her little body could bear.

While Rachel and I had lost touch on so many levels, one of the kindest things that she ever did to me was say that Lauren had picked pictures of her friends and family that she wanted to be buried with.

"Kiran, you were in two of her pictures. She did not have many. She always knew you loved her. She understood."

I don't know if that was the biggest load of crock from my former friend, semi-former frenemy and now borderline savior, but I took it that day.

We can't change the past. We CAN change our future. I feel that I failed Lauren at a time when she just needed constant love and support should have said, "grow a pair" to my own discomfort at the situation.

I will tell you this. There are days, where I think I am a pretty crappy friend to the Carmicals. I don't always know what to say or how to comfort them and I feel like maybe I am not the best to give advice, especially when I was tested before and failed, failed failed so freaking miserably.

But I try - and sometimes that just means accepting quiet silences, drinking a glass of wine and enjoying the sunset together or watching our children run us ragged while still keeping each other laughing.

I think of Lauren's smile and I believe she knew what was in my heart though I feel I failed her. And for the angel she was, I have to bless her heart and take that as my own inspiration.

I will NEVER retreat again. Journey4acure.org is my journey now. It is not just for Declan or the other children I mention every day. It is for my beautiful friend who still haunts my dreams every so often with her long flowing brown hair and gorgeous grey eyes and all the serenity in the world.

She was a child when she developed cancer, at the point they detected it, she had been living with colon cancer since she was 14 or 15 given the rate of metastasis. She used to joke with the 1 in a million odds she had to get this, why hadn't she tried a tad bit harder to have tried to play the lottery, with potentially better odds. After all - couldn't it work both ways?

Lauren is one of the lost children and she is part of my journey.

Lauren if you can hear me in any way, I love you old friend, and can never forget your smile. I still think of you often. Please comfort Declan if you see him and all the others who are gone too young. Tell them that they are still so very loved.

As are you.

Love,

Kiran

Broken.

2011-06-20T20:04:00.014-04:00

It was a fairly unremarkable day last year, in August 2010. Like most days in August in Northern Virginia, the humidity was palpable and I had retreated for cover in our home, deliberating whether to just go through with it. Not wanting to think about it any longer, I pressed my foot down on the garbage can and threw the stupid thing away before I could vacillate any longer.

A few minutes later, John walked into the kitchen and got out some orange juice from the frig. He stepped on the garbage can to throw out a wrapper. I knew what he was going to say before the words were even out.

He looked up at me. "Did you throw away the..?"

"Yes," I said, before he could get the words out.

He looked dumbfounded. "Why?"

"It was broken." I said.

"Broken?" he asked, fairly dubiously.

"Yes. Broken." My tone must have implied that I didn't want to talk about it anymore, because he let it go.

Our baby video monitor, which we had spent so many hours of our lives losing sleep over as we watched out children NOT sleep at night, was finally being retired as it lay in our kitchen trash.

(August 2009) One year earlier . . .

I was reaching my 36 week mark of my second pregnancy. I was on bedrest, exhausted and still extremely jealous of all the women who wore their pregnancies with so much more grace than I ever seemed to pull off. I was never one of those women who could wear stilettos till the moment of delivery.

After the second trimester, I have historically been more of a Crocs kind of girl.

Across the street, my friend Sherri is one of those graceful women. Pregnant with twins, she was due a few weeks after me. On hot summer days, I would find myself outside, sitting in front of her house as our then two year olds would cavort in the inflatable swimming pool and water slide she still had the energy to set up.. Exhausted from just watching her do so much labor, I would retire on a chair beside her and admire my cankles and talked about missing beer and cold cuts and sushi - what seemed like such great sacrifices to us at that moment in time. We did not even pretend that I could keep up with her and I tried not to feel too guilty as she kept up with our older kids.

We talked about our deliveries, our doctors, how much fun it was going to be for all of our kids to grow up on this cul-de-sac, the lasting friendship we hoped our children would have together in this neighborhood. A neighborhood that feels more like family and good friends than just people who share houses on the same road.

I went into labor shortly after, and Nico was four weeks early.

John, Nico and me

Everything went well until at 5 days old, we had to bring Nico back to the hospital where he was diagnosed with spinal meningitis. Our world had been turned upside down for the five days we spent in the hospital and I made so many promises and prayed so hard to a God I very fickly admit to believe in.

Since I was raised Hindu, I thought I would leverage the plural use of God(s) in this case since more could not hurt.

When we returned from the hospital, it was not long after that Sherri gave birth to her twin boys, Cole and Declan. It was truly a joyous time for all of us.

Sherri, Cole and Declan

Night Vision

At night, I would watch Nico very closely in his crib over the video monitor. Given the fear I had of almost losing him during that early reality check we had in the hospital, I was overly cautious and perhaps a bit more connected to the video monitor than I hoped to be.

I lay in bed and would just watch him, sometimes just to make sure I could detect movement or hear the reassuring coos he would make.

The monitor, at this point, was two years old, already put to heavy use with our eldest, Shaila. It would sometimes do some random things. You would be watching your kid flopping around in their crib and suddenly see it cut out to another crib or bed before switching back.

These moments were infrequent, but they did happen.

I let most of our neighbors who had kids know about this freaky video camera/channel thing, just to make sure they were aware. Nobody reported having any issues on their end with their video monitors.

But over time, things got a little less clear on our monitor. It would switch out more frequently and the image of our own child became more blurry when it was focused on Nico.

When I would sleep at night, I would often go to bed looking at the fuzzy video of Nico. As I drifted in and out of sleep, the picture would somehow switch to Cole and Declan, sleeping wrapped as two brothers who knew the comfort of each others' heartbeats.

I was no longer disturbed by these video "interruptions."

Until the larger, unexpected interruption occurred with our lives.

Declan was diagnosed with cancer. AT/RT, a rare brain tumor.

I tossed and turned many nights those months. The video camera would hold still on Nico and had increased the frequency of its "switches." I would often catch a image of Cole sleeping alone in his bed, no longer with the comfort of his best friend. These glimpses were for a few seconds, but I would lay in bed, unable to sleep.

Unable to breathe, it felt.

Where was Declan sleeping tonight? How was the family doing? How much longer would all four brothers in this family need to be apart?

Deep breath.

Fast Forward.

May.

June.

July.

August.

In August, a few months that felt like a lifetime later, our Au Pair, Fe, complained about the monitor as well.

And that was it. I could go and hug Nico a few rooms over. I did not need that monitor anymore. I would never have that stolen image again.

The day I realized for real, in my heart, that Declan would not be coming home was the day I threw out the video monitor. I could no longer bear to see it.

I could no longer bear to ACCEPT what I would no longer see.

This takes me to my conversation in the kitchen with John in the kitchen in August 2010, just days short of Declan's passing.

"Broken?" John asked.

"Yes. Broken."

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

Please help us fix this. That video monitor is gone along with the smile of a boy I loved. But we can fix this.

Vote.

Journey 4 a Cure with us.

Yours,

Kiran

(Masala Chica)

A Journey

2011-06-19T20:25:00.014-04:00

This blog has gone through an identity crisis since I started it.

This is not to be confused with any loss of identity or confusion on the part of its owner.

Nope. None whatsoever.

I was very obviously on the "mommy blog" track when I initially started. Then I started to pepper in my Indian heritage, making it more of a "mommy blog with some curry." Then I kind of ranted and raved about whatever pissed me off that day (this can still occur, though I try to reel it in).

And then last year, everything changed.

Everything.

As a result, I changed. This blog changed. My focus changed.

Things that seemed important, no longer seemed that way to me. Things that previously seemed like the largest injustice didn't piss me off quite so much anymore, and things that I may have overlooked in the past now mattered to me in a new and re-defining way.

I guess death does that to you . . . . :(

I know that some of you have read about my posts on Declan Carmical, a young boy who lived on our street and succumbed to cancer just days before his first birthday. The journey our good friends, the Carmicals, have taken since the day Declan was diagnosed at four months of age and the long climb they face to bring awareness and support to pediatric cancer has been an emotionally uplifting, inspiring and amazing thing . . .

. . . While simultaneously being emotionally draining, discouraging and completely overwhelming.

And the thing is, I am just a friend of a family that has to deal with this every day. To see what my friends have gone through while still maintaining focus, dedication and passion to fight pediatric cancer is a truly humbling thing.

To realize that there is not ONE Declan, but so many more has been a huge punch in the gut. To hear stories of children like Aiden, Taylor, Brooke, Carson, Shea, Evy and TOO, TOO many others - who are bravely battling cancer makes me want to mobilize and move my butt in gear to do something.

But I just can't move fast enough. And for someone who hates to ask for help, this is one of those times where I really, really need to shout from the rooftops that your help is needed.

Statistics are hard to look at. They are even harder to believe. And they give a whole new perspective to where our children might be most vulnerable.

Reality: Pediatric Cancer is the #1 disease related killer of children in the United States.

Reality: Only 1 drug has been approved by the FDA in the last 30 years to fight pediatric cancer. In comparison to the 50 medications approved for adult cancers in the same time span, we are looking at a truly crippled treatment process for children.

Harsher Reality: Childhood cancer research is not only underfunded, but funding has declined.

WHY?

Really, really crappy reality: It's a numbers game. With children cancer comprising only 5% of all cancer diagnoses annually, pharmaceutical companies don't see a business case to fund treatment research.

No family should hear the words, there is no known cure.

For any disease.

Sadly, too many parents will have to hear those words in our lifetime if we don't mobilize.

Journey 4 a Cure is dedicated to seeing beyond the business case and working to build a case around the lives of families that need the research, that are praying for their children, and who are bravely fighting the odds to keep their journey going.

This post is a request to help Journey 4 a Cure to meet their goals. Ways you can help:

1) Vote for Journey 4 A Cure every day on the Vivint project page. Vivent will be giving 1.25 million dollars to worthwhile causes, and we are trying to win our regional grand prize of $250,000 - 100% of the proceeds will go towards pediatric cancer research if we win.

2) Did I mention voting EVERY day? Oh yeah. I think so. Please keep it going until August 27th. This is only one day after Declan's birthday (and his twin Cole's birthday). What an amazing thing that would be to see as we celebrate Declan and Cole's second birthday . . .

3) If you are a blogger, can you repost one of the badges from the Vivint site in honor of Journey 4 a Cure? Would you ask other bloggers to support the cause?

4) Would you post the project in your facebook status? I cannot stress how much winning this money would do towards the fight against pediatric cancer.

5) Hug your kids. Love them. And pray that they never have to face cancer or any other disease that can rob them of the youth they all so deserve.

6) Beyond praying, please join us in our journey. Even if its just a vote.

We journey. Every day.

And we will journey however long it takes.

Thank you for your support.

Humbly Yours,

Masala Chica (Kiran . . .)

One World. No, Really.

2011-04-12T15:20:00.007-04:00

In a world where tragedy seems to be around every corner, it feels like we often are biding our time until the next natural (or unnatural) act of devastation leaves us reeling from the evening news.

It's almost an expected outcome - as the world spins on its axis - we hold our breaths knowing that its just a matter of time when the cadence of all the moving parts, pieces and souls on this planet will lose rhythm with the ground below us.

Whether its the dynamic whisper of a dance between two tectonic plates that gets interrupted as one steps on the others' toes beneath the ocean, to set off the chain reaction of events that culminate in enormous waves overtaking one of the world's most powerful cities.

Whether its the devastation that is left behind by two planes colliding with the tallest buildings in the financial capital of the world.

Whether its a debilitating earthquake that leaves thousands of people dead, injured, orphaned and hungry.

As we all seem to know - it's generally not a question of "if," but a question of:

"When?"

"Where?"

and "To whom?"

While many of us pray for those who are affected, send money, organize fund raisers, bemoan the sadness of these events on Facebook - while our hearts and minds are affected, we can generally turn off the sounds of the cries, the wails, the collateral damage with the flick of our remote controls or by closing our web browsers.

We gain a whole different perspective. We applaud our corporate matching programs and rally up our families funds to send on - to help some of the nameless children who we see Christian Amanpour covering or to help make the devastating living conditions that Anderson Cooper tells us about, just that much better.

Because we want to help. Most of us genuinely do. And, if you are anything like me, every time something like this happens - you think to yourself:

"My God. This puts things into such perspective."

And then time passes. Anderson Cooper leaves the devastated area. The news crews withdraw while aid agencies continue to ensure their resources can assist for as long as they can, but funds dry up and there is too much need to address and not enough money in the world or enough resources to fix some of the larger problems.

We, who vowed to hug our kids a little harder - and not sweat the small stuff, may still hug our kids pretty tight - but we go back to the small stuff. And we DO sweat it and let us derail that perspective which we just gained.

When the tsunami hit Japan, my heart stopped beating and I could not take in what had happened.

I didn't find much solace when I went online - in addition to the growing catastrophic impacts being reported - the asinine, ignorant - and completely inhumane comments I saw appear in my news feed (comments on my friends' statuses - thank god none of these commenters were my own "friends") made me want to shut that channel off as well.

"Do you think the Japanese prayed for us when it came to Pearl Harbor?" one commenter asked a fellow Facebook friend, after she had put "Prayers for Japan" in her status line.

I was so disturbed by the comment, I didn't know how one should respond. "Crawl back in your hole, you snake" seemed like it lacked some maturity, while "Are you the spawn of satan, you little m%^%^fer?" also seemed fairly juvenile.

I did not realize that there were lots of comments like that one. I didn't even know people still thought that way.

But then again - I never knew that there were people who thought Haiti deserved to be struck by earthquakes because of its historically documented (hmm, hmm) "pact with the devil."

The reality is, when the world encounters devastation - we can act in many ways. One would hope that we can rally together to offer hope, prevent further tragedy and save as many lives as we can with whatever resources we have. We can offer prayer, money, assistance.

Or we can respond with fear, ignorance, and arrogance.

But in a world where some of the boundaries and identities we have built for ourselves seem to blur more and more as we truly become an international community, I think people need to think just a little bit harder about holding onto belief systems that are as terroristic in many ways as some of the evils most Americans have been raised to decry. An international community, which in many ways, supersedes ethnicity, geographical boundaries and religions - assisted by technology which ties unknown people together in ways which were never foreseen.

I don't know where I was going with this piece. But I figure since I didn't know know where I was headed when I started, I might as well end with this little story.

When John and I were in Hawaii for our honeymoon, we had a conversation with another couple at our hotel pool at a resort on the Big Island. The couple had just been to Oahu and had gone to visit Pearl Harbor. I won't even forget one of the things he said to us.

"It was crazy being there. Very emotional and powerful. But it also made me angry," the man said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because of all the Japanese people there. It made me want to turn around and say to them - you DID this. Why are you here?"

I was flummoxed. Not because on some level I couldn't understand perhaps some of this man's instinctual sentiment. But at his association that generations later - the people of Japanese origin standing next to him HAD DONE THIS.

As an American, I will tell you the following:

I didn't bomb Hiroshima. Or Nagasaki.

I didn't put a single Japanese American into an interment camp.

I never declined refuge to a Jewish person seeking amnesty in the United States during WWII who may later have died in the horrors of those godforsaken camps.

I NEVER did ANY of those things.

But as an American, I accept those facts as part of my history. Just as I embrace the parts of it that make me proud - I accept the blemishes which are my birthright as well.

When I think of the people who have been devastated in Japan - I do not see myself as an American offering my prayers to a country which is disconnected from me. We are all connected and interwoven in ways that ignorance can do little to compromise.

For now, I think I will find my faith in the humanity that I have to believe outweighs the ignorance.

Namaste,

Kiran

Repost - Thank You, India

2011-03-01T10:08:00.003-05:00

Today on my Facebook status updates, I saw my cousin's birthday show up. He passed away in late March, 2010, so it gave me a jolt. When I went to his wall, I saw that the last post on his wall was from me last year wishing him a Happy Birthday . . .

In loving memory of my cousin, Mukesh Bhaiya . . . .

(This post was originally published on April 1, 2010.)

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

A few weeks ago, my family (in the United States) got word from my family (in India) that something terrible had happened.

A cousin of mine, whom I call, Mukesh Bhaiya (Bhaiya means brother), had passed away.

His death was a tragic one. He was a cameraman for a news crew and on the way back from an assignment, the car which he was traveling in (along with a reporter and driver) was in a terrible, terrible accident.

He left behind a wife and a one year old son.

Two weeks later, my parents called me to tell me that another uncle of mine in India had also passed away.

My parents did not cry as they told me the news on the phone. But I could tell that they were devastated by the loss. The distance. The memories.

I didn't cry either.

Not because I'm not sad. I am terribly, terribly sad.

It's more because I don't feel like I have the right to cry.

In many ways, I feel like I have let my family in India down.

Actually, it's not something I feel, it's something I know.

I have cousins I have not seen in years. However, some of my happiest childhood memories were spent with them during my summers in India.

I have aunts and uncles who I ran to with open arms as a child, who showered me with love and candy and sunshine and laughter.

But I can't remember their faces anymore.

I have family in India, who don't have "much" if you just consider possessions. My family is from the Northern villages of the state of Bihar, which is known to be one of the poorest areas of India.

Which, I guess you can imagine, says something.

However, they would give you the shirt off their backs if you went into their homes. They would feed you food that would not be easy to afford for them, but they would do it with joy and love and complete and utter affection.

Even if it meant they might have to go without something later that week, to give you something they could be proud of today.

My sister, her husband and my niece recently came back from a trip to India. They had a whirlwind trip, but they made an effort to see ALL of the family, which means a whole lot of travel and a lot more hecticness.

But my sister thought it was important. She wanted to make the time.

To make the effort.

As she told me about how everyone was, emotions swept through me and clenched my heart tighter than I knew possible.

How was Lal Didi? I asked.

Did you get a chance to see Hema and Reshma? Did you see Mala? Are they still as beautiful as I remember? The tears had started to fall.

What about Nidhi? Is she going to college? She was always so smart!

My sister answered all of my questions. I could tell how much the trip had meant to her too. She answered as I asked about everyone I could think of. What were their children like? Were they happy?

She told me that she had never laughed harder. That she forgot how much joy our family had in them.

That she laughed and laughed and they laughed and laughed and she will never, ever forget that sound of their laughter.

I have never forgotten the sound of their laughter.

My children will know where my parents come from. They will know their distant aunts and uncles. Maybe not today, but I have to do this, not just for me, but for them.

They will understand the opportunities that they have. That perhaps their own cousins have never had.

They will understand what it means to have plentiful food, heat and air conditioning.

They will understand what it means to love with such openness and joy that it could make your heart break.

I can't wait to take them to India. It is one of the strongest legacies I can give them.

To my family in India - you may be far, but I will never, ever forget you.

You are a part of me. You are a part of my children.

I am humbled. And I will see you soon.

Thank you.

Namaste,
Kiran

It's . . . Complicated

2011-02-07T21:19:00.006-05:00

Ok. Big, BIG revelation.

I am addicted to the "Housewives of Beverly Hills."

I take that BACK.

Delete, Delete, Delete.

I am addicted to the whole entire "Housewives" enterprise developed by Bravo.

You can judge me.

Oh, you can judge me.

But where else can I get that kind of unmitigated drama? Where else can I see women pulling each others' weaves out ? (Double Whammy - NJ AND Atlanta) Where else can I see a woman out her own sister for being an alcoholic on national television (coincidentally, in the season finale - way to end with a bang) and telling that same sister that she is dead to her? (Beverly Hills) Where else can I see how the other half live in mansions that could fit my entire neighborhood into the back garden? ( part of Orange County, ALL of Beverly Hills, a little bit of NJ, some of NY and some of Atlanta)

It's an unadulterated guilty pleasure. And sometimes, it's not such a pleasure - I admit that too. It can be almost painful. But for whatever reason, I have been sucked in.

In the season finale of the "Housewives of Beverly Hills," I was so disgusted - absolutely mortified, actually - when I saw the behavior of one of the women, Kyle Richards - as she verbally attacked her older sister, Kim Richards, who sat there in tears. She announced on national television that her sister was "sick" and had an alcohol problem. They are both aunts to Paris and Nikki Hilton - and both were child actresses.

(Where am I going with this post? This is not a Masala Chica-esque post, you might be thinking).

And you're right. I usually don't talk about what a jackass I am and the stupid shit I watch in the moments of free time which I have.

But I sat there and completely judged this woman.

How could she? I thought.

And then something happened to me this past weekend . . . .

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

My parents had come to visit from New Jersey for the weekend. I was stressed. I wanted to see them, but so many things were running through my head.

1) I had just returned from a business trip.
2) I had to turn around on Sunday and do it all over again in another city.
3) My family missed me. And I missed them. And I was really dreading the trip away.
4) My parents would be leaving for India shortly after my visit. Neither of them is in the best health and it has been weighing on me - the time away and the stress it might place on them.
5) Work is stressing me out.

It was all so freaking overwhelming and it was really messing me up.

On Saturday morning, my mom did something that annoyed me. Not really a big deal, but it pissed me off.

And this is the part where I am just so ashamed. More ashamed than about the fact that I watch the "Housewives" series (which you know means that I am pretty mortified).

My mother did something that upset me which I could have normally handled. However, with two kids screaming in the background, me trying to make up for weeks of laundry that had been left undone, and the heavy guilt that was weighing on me that I was going to be gone AGAIN - something in me snapped.

It just freaking snapped.

I found myself being downright nasty. Telling my mother how she should have handled this differently and how I couldn't count on her to support me.

Terrible, terrible things really.

And the reality was - that what I was saying had little, if anything to do with what just happened that set me off in the first place.

I can attribute it to stress from a situation I sometimes feel like I have little control over. I definitely think what was coming to the surface were memories of things from the past. Pains from a time long ago. Things to do with nothing on the surface but which had everything to do with all of the things that are submerged somewhere I don't often tread.

Or it could just be that I'm an asshole.

The worse thing was that the worse I felt, the worse I projected that on to her. She didn't deserve it. Not then, for sure. If I wanted to talk about things from the past, I could have talked to her about it differently.

But at that moment, a wave of SOMETHING - something that I don't always want to acknowledge - hit me like a ton of bricks.

I wasn't rational Kiran.

I wasn't rational anything.

And I was ashamed.

********************************************
I made up with my mom that day. While my parents' time with me was cut short by the fact that I had to fly out mid-day Superbowl Sunday (who effing plans a conference the day AFTER Superbowl Sunday?) I got to spend some really great quality time with them.

So how does this come back to the "Housewives"? For real?

I guess the only thing I can say is that when it comes to family - and you are outside looking in - nothing is always quite what it seems and that there are dynamics that play into so many aspects of your communication.

If you look at communication that happens within your family - sometimes the response or answer a particular question gets may seem unwarranted when you look at it with a filter on. But when you start to let the many things that really, really make us all who we are and underline our identities within our families - it starts to make sense.

Not saying I shouldn't see a counselor or anything and live more in the present - but it makes sense.

So cheers to you.

Cheers to hoping that you watch more intelligent television than me.

And cheers to hoping that you don't eff up the way I did this last weekend.

(You know this already, but I am sorry, Ma. Love you.)

Namaste,
Kiran

The In Between

2011-02-02T01:45:00.005-05:00

I am not the most religious person. I believe in something. I just don't always know what that is.

I don't think that not knowing makes me bad. Or makes me less worthy.

Although I am sure there are those who disagree. To be more clear, I KNOW that there are those who disagree.

I was born Hindu. It is a religion, like most others, with when practiced with good intent and true faith, espouses love, acceptance and forgiveness. I believe that there are flaws, as there are with most organized religions.

But being Hindu has been a part of my identity that I could not shake, just as I could not shake the tan skin that belied the Indian heritage of my family.

I can't wash it off - just as I can't change the tone of my flesh. It is immersed in my culture, the seams which make up the fabric of my family.

It was and has been a part of my identity, though you can probably question how "legit" I am in terms of actual practice.

I recall having questions about religion early on. I attended the epic number of "pujas" or religious ceremonies, that my parents and family seemed to hold each weekend - sometimes multiples on one weekend.

That's a lot of praying.

It's especially a lot of praying for a child who could not understand the Sanskrit readings of our family priests, yet had to sit for hours, laboriously feigning interest in something I could not understand - while shamelessly daydreaming about my crushes at school or how I might get the curls to lay flatter against my head.

My mind was elsewhere.

I recall hearing from a friend in high school that I was going to hell. We were reading the Divine Comedy - more specifically - "Dante's Inferno" - in Advanced Placement English. I was having trouble grasping some of the levels at which Dante Alighieri had allocated some of the true despots, heathens and unworthy to their specific levels, or circles of Hell.

I described the trouble I had understanding the idea of "Limbo" - which was the first circle of Hell as described by Dante. This is where all the unbaptized and the virtuous pagans, who had not sinned, but did not accept Christ, were actively punished.

Having been fairly sheltered thus far from such ideas, at the age of 17, I was startled when my friend said, "That's ridiculous!"

I was not startled by the fact that she said, "That's ridiculous!" but in what she said afterwards . . .

"Everyone knows there is no such thing as limbo for people like you. You are just going straight to the deepest levels of Hell."'

Silence.

But you know me. I don't usually stay silent for long.

"Really? So if I rape and if I steal and if I murder but I repent and accept Christ - I would be in better shape than I am today?" I asked.

She looked at me as if I was crazy and said the words that left a very lasting impression on me.

"Well, that's just the way it works. Everyone knows it."

Funny that. I guess I hadn't.

(And just for the record, our friendship kind of fizzled out after that).

My thoughts ran through my muddled mind (as directly after AP English, we had Organic Chemistry - so my mind was already a jumbled mess)

"But this is how I was born. Why would God punish me for that?"

"Even if I convert, would God punish the rest of my family? What kind of idea of Heaven is that for me if I don't have my family with me? Even if I convince my family here - what about my family in India? What about the ones who are already gone?"

"So many parts of the world have never been exposed to Christianity. Was God's intent to banish them directly to that circle?"

(And no, I am not talking about the world today, where online mechanisms and ever-expanding missionary efforts are taking place - but the world we lived in for much longer, where in fact, Christianity was centrally focused in Europe).

"Did that mean God did not want (for at least a few centuries) - Non Europeans to be granted access to Heaven?"

I have had friends who have discussed conversion with me. In a safe, approachable way. And I have considered it. I think there are two quotes by Gandhi (who per this definition, would also be confined to that first circle of Hell, a thought which completely boggles MY sometimes less than lucid mind) that really define how I feel about the matter.

In regards to conversion, Gandhi said at his famous speech at Harijan in 1935:

"I believe that there is no such thing as conversion from one faith to another in the accepted sense of the word.

It is a highly personal matter for the individual and his God. I may not have any design upon my neighbor as to his faith, which I must honor even as I honor my own.

Having reverently studied the scriptures of the world I could no more think of asking a Christian or a Musalman, or a Parsi or a Jew to change his faith than I would think of changing my own."

So, while sometimes I remain confused and sometimes I believe that I am just a "little bit of everything" and for now, that works for me. And I find my own truth and faith in that and it works for me.

Because, similar to Gandhi, I also believe that when you take the best parts of religion and evaluate them and leave the noise behind, that there is truth in all of them:

"I came to the conclusion long ago … that all religions were true and also that all had some error in them, and whilst I hold by my own, I should hold others as dear as Hinduism. So we can only pray, if we are Hindus, not that a Christian should become a Hindu … But our innermost prayer should be a Hindu should be a better Hindu, a Muslim a better Muslim, a Christian a better Christian."

Gandhi, (Young India: January 19, 1928)

You don't have to agree with me. I am not seeking validation of where I stand. I am far from fundamental so I can handle a little discussion.

What I can't handle are absolutes that don't address the true nature of the reality that our world is not that black and white.

Hoping you all are close to your own truth.

Namaste,
Kiran

He Ain't Heavy. He's My Brother.

2011-01-30T22:02:00.011-05:00

The other day, I started a series on my siblings. If you are back, thanks for sticking around. If you want to get some back-story, you might want to read this one first.

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

My palms were sweaty.

My heart was beating so fast I thought it would burst from my chest.

What if I don't recognize him? I thought.

Or even worse, what if he doesn't recognize me? The second thought hit me just as suddenly in the gut.

I panicked, brushing my palms against my lavendar corduroy pants that looked so foreign as I stood at the Arrivals gate at the New Delhi airport.

I gave myself a little pep talk. A pep talk delivered both by the confident part of me, that despite years of extensive training (pep talks within pep talks) was generally beat up on regularly by its insecure counterpart, probably well into my twenties.

Heck, who am I kidding?

As long as I have known myself.

The dialog ran through my tired, jet-lagged brain, still so clear in my mind.

Confident me: You can do this! Piece of cake!

Insecure me: Run for the hills! Heck, see if you can climb right back onto that Air India flight and hide under one of the stewardess's saris.

Confident me: But you have waited this for sooooo long!

Insecure me: But what if you're nothing like he thinks? What if . . .

Confident me: What if . . . what?

Insecure me: What if you're not pretty enough, or not smart enough, or just not . . .

Confident me: Just not . . . what?

Insecure me: What, well . . . he expects his sister to be.

Confident me: Oh.

Confident Me had nothing to say. This was not new. Confident Me often got perturbed by the things that Insecure Me said. Cutting down what little self-worth Confident Me often had developed, Insecure Me was always sure to run back in, no matter how busy she was, to knock Confident Me down off of whatever temporary pedestals she (I mean, I) had created for myself.

Usually with no more than one fell swoop of her teeny, but precise, hand.

With gusto.

Aplomb, if you will.

Funny how that happens . . .

My mother unintentionally broke off the now silenced debate inside my head and reached her hand out to me.

"Chalo." (Come with me).

I stood in the airport, clutching my mother's hand, tightly. I was aware of the curious looks I was drawing, and would continue to draw when I visited India throughout my youth, as my mother did not give much credence to the term "when in Rome."

I was packed in a bright orange polyester coat straight off the sales rack of J.C. Penney's. My thick black eyeglasses rested on my little nose, continually sliding down its slope, despite the obvious bump that should have hindered its path but aided by sweat. My naturally curly hair was brushed to a fine swath of frizz - my mother prescribed to the Marcia Brady approach that 100 brush strokes a night would make my hair beautiful.

Good for Marcia Brady.

Not so good for me, with my naturally spiral curls to rival Shirley Temple's.

I stood in wonder as I looked upward at the glass panels on the second level where family members and friends stood trying to identify their loved ones who were leaving customs below.

Hundreds of people.

How will I know it's him? I have only ever seen pictures. The panic returned.

I let go of my mother's hand and looked up. I turned in circles - feeling somewhat like a little freak show on display - no doubt assisted by the bright orange of my fashion forward J.C. Penney puffy coat. I must have looked like some mini astronaut to most of the people up there.

And then I saw him.

It was like nobody else was there. Everyone else disappeared into the background.

Tall. Same, slightly tilted eyes as my Munni Didi, no doubt hinting of the Nepalese lineage within our family, often evident amongst many of my cousins and siblings.

Handsome. I couldn't help but notice the looks he was getting from other people, especially the women, standing by him.

I smiled. He smiled back.

I waved. So did he.

Confident me gave Insecure me a big heave ho and told her to take a freaking hike.

I turned to my mother. "Ma, that's Phoolbhaiya, right?"

She looked up, smiled and waved and said, "Yes."

The year was 1981. I was 5 years old. My brother was 18 years old.

I was seeing my oldest brother for the first time in my life that I could remember, after he had been sent to India to study when I was just a year old.

I had seen his face in pictures, so many times.

And there it was.

I remember him running to action when he realized it was us and gracefully making his way through the heavy crowds of people. A crowd that suddenly seemed to be so thick, keeping me away from hurling myself into this young man's arms.

And then, there he was. Standing right in front of me. I remember him holding me in his arms and me snuggling my face in the deepest recesses of his neck, not wanting to ever let go.

Thinking how frail the connection that bound us was in the absence of having those four years of my life, not knowing him, not hugging him, not being able to fight with him or tell him I loved him.

Another part of me realized that no matter the distance, and no matter that we might be apart again - that today I was able to hold my brother.

I will never forget that day. I turned 35 years old the other day, and when I think of major events in my life, I will always remember the first time that I saw my oldest brother, Himanshu, my Phoolbhaiya.

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

My oldest brother continued to study in India, completing medical school there. He came back to the United States when I was in my teens. While we continued to love each other (and also made up a little for the years we couldn't fight with each other), I have always felt cheated of the years that I did not have with him.

I don't know how to always tell him that. There is a generational divide that separates us due to our age, but there is an abyss that lies between us which spans the years we were separated - across continents, across culture and across totally different lives.

He is still far from me geographically - but Florida is a lot better than India if we need to talk distance.

We try to build a bridge across that divide that was dealt us. Dealt to all of my siblings due a complex and hard to explain family situation.

Sometimes we succeed.

Sometimes we don't.

But we always try.

Because it matters. He will ALWAYS matter to me.

He is a successful doctor in Florida. A lot of people ask me sometimes how my parents were alright with me not going the traditional arranged marriage route after both of my sisters had arranged marriages.

Well, Phoolbhaiya was the "trailblazer" for me there. He married a beautiful Irish Catholic woman whom I am proud to call my Sister in law and they have three beautiful daughters. So beautiful, that sometimes it makes my heart ache.

And I am so happy for them that as siblings, and as nieces whom I love dearly, they will never have to bear the separation that I bore with my own brother.

I will never get back those years. But I am again, so proud to call this man my brother.

Namaste,
Kiran

P.S. The reason for the title of this post, is that the old song, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," always reminds me of my bro. On his wedding day, he danced with each of his sisters to this song, so it always brings a smile to my face when I hear it, and makes me remember all the reasons I love him.

Sister

2011-01-27T21:07:00.011-05:00

I often have spoken about the influence my parents have had on my life.

What I tend not to share, as much, is my relationship with my siblings.

I am the youngest of five children in my family. In order, my siblings are named Kanchan (Sister), Himanshu (brother), Kusum (sister), Sudhanshu (brother - and yes my brothers names rhyme).

And then there is me.

Kiran.

I sometimes think I avoid writing about my siblings because on so many levels, the sibling relationship is often complex and full of ever changing dynamics. If you have a sibling, you know the powerful connections that bind you through a shared history.

A history that encompasses so, so much.

Each others dreams.

Seeing each other at our worst.

Seeing each other at our best.

We have been part of some of the biggest joys of each other's lives.

We have shared some of our most painful memories together.

We have also been the ones to sometimes inflict the most pain on each other.

And we never stop loving each other.

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

When I was growing up, many of my memories are really about my sister Kusum (whom I call Munni Didi) and Sudhanshu (Sudhu Bhaiya). They were older than me - Munni Didi by 12 years and Sudhu Bhaiya by 10 years. In Indian culture, you attach the designation of "Didi" (older sister) and "Bhaiya" (older brother) to show respect for your elder siblings.

My other two siblings were not with me till much later in life. We were together for my first year of life - of which I have no memory. My Kanchan Didi had been married through an arranged marriage at a very young age and stayed in India with her husband from when I was 1 years old until I turned 16. Himanshu (or PhoolBhaiya) was also sent to India to do his studies there from when I was 1 till I was 15.

In many ways, we were a family divided. Not by love - but by circumstance.

And you know, like everything else, it's all very complicated.

So while my parents were lovely parents to me, I was raised a great deal by both my Munni Didi and my Sudhu Bhaiya. They played with me, spoiled me rotten and made me feel very loved.

But it was also different. While Sudhu Bhaiya was there for me a lot, he had found a love in cross-country running and spent hours on this new passion of his, making new friends and having as normal of a life as he could have had given the rules and regulations placed on us by strict Indian parents.

Munni Didi didn't really have that. She had friends and she was beautiful. But she didn't have the chance to do things that most teenagers her own age did. Her life, in many ways, was based around her being almost a surrogate mother to me, while my mom worked at our family business and my dad in NYC as an Engineer.

There wasn't really an option of after school activities or anything like that for her. After my afternoon kindergarten would disband, she would be there, waiting to get me, having walked the mile from our home - no matter what the weather.

She had my back. I had her's.

We were a great team. We had a pretty good system going down by the time I was 6. She would let me watch one episode of "Scooby Doo" and then we could watch "Guiding Light." It seemed like a fair trade, especially because I was starting to crush more on Philip Spaulding than Fred anyway.

We shared a room. I didn't know how to sleep on my own. We had always been in the same room. I had a small twin bed and she had a larger full bed on the other side of the room. It really didn't matter - I would always end up curled next to her - asking her to read me another story or sing to me - maybe the new song by the "Styx" or something.

She really couldn't do any wrong.

I remember one day, she didn't give me something I wanted. I cried and cried and pouted and shouted. Finally, I had enough.

"I'm running away!"

"Oh no!" she said. "I am going to miss you so much!"

Pause.

"Do you want me to help you pack?"

I was devastated. Did she really want me gone?

I sat there quietly as she painstakingly packed my suitcase for me. She made sure to include sweaters and lots of clean underwear, because those were important, she said. She also told me to make sure I changed my underwear every day. She snuck in a bag of Ruffles - "just in case."

I watched numbly and nodded my head in assent.

As she helped me bring my suitcase downstairs, I started to cry. I was trying to keep a brave face, but I hadn't expected her full cooperation in my running away "scam"

"Do you want me to make you a tuna sandwich for the road?" she asked.

"No," I said, though I was thinking that maybe it could buy me some time and she would realize what a mistake she was making.

I think she let me go halfway down the block, past the Yablonickys' house, when I finally turned around, snot and tears all over my face and I ran back and thew myself in her arms.

I couldn't imagine ever being without her.

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

That same year, at the end of my kindergarten year and my sister's senior year of Madison Central High School, her arranged marriage was settled.

She was 18 years old.

My parents, my sister and I went to India and traveled through to the northern recesses of Bihar to the village my paternal grandparents lived in - Simrahi. My Sudhu Bhaiya could not go, because he had to stay home and take care of our family business - an Indian grocery store.

My sister's wedding took place over the course of several days. I sat there and enjoyed the time with my cousins. I laughed during the festivities. I sang songs and sat as close as I could to Munni Didi, nestling myself into her side. My other two siblings were there - Phoolbhaiya and Kanchan Didi - so this was a joyous time for me - getting those rare opportunities that I had to see them. My new Jeejajee (brother-in-law) seemed really nice and I was so excited to show him what life was like back home in America.

And then, the wedding was over.

Done.

I was so excited about going back home. I missed pizza. I missed doughnuts. I missed my friends and cousins back home. I missed Sudhu Bhaiya.

I didn't realize until then that my sister would not be coming back with me.

I still remember standing on the platform of the Simrahi train station, begging her to stay with me. She sat in the railcar with her new family. The open windows of the train were minimally protected by bars across the windows, which reminded me of a prison cell. I held on to the bars as my father tried to pull me away while my sister struggled with her own tears.

"Didi!!!! Don't leave me!!! Don't leave me!!!" I could not hardly get the words out. The tears and the force of the pain I was feeling wracked my small body, making my words sound useless.

My six year old heart burst as I sat there, helpless. I still was holding on to the bars as the train started to pull away from the platform, but I eventually had to let go.

I tried to run with the train as long as I could before one of my cousins stopped me.

And all I remember is curling up on the ground and crying like my six year old self had never cried before.

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

Darkness. Nothingness.

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

The next few weeks were a blur as we returned home. I was listless and unable to grasp this life without my sister. I tried, but I felt like a vital life force was missing from our home and nothing was the same.

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

My sister and brother-in-law came back from India about a year later. I got my groove back and managed to somehow survive as they started to build their own life in the United States.

There is a lot that happened on their journey. My sister, who only had a high school degree, first could only find a job at Wendy's. Ultimately, she found herself a great job at a bank, where she worked her butt off to get promoted multiple times.

She had two beautiful babies. One of those "babies" - is getting married this year at the age of 26.

She decided to go back to school and get her Bachelors Degree.

Then she decided to go back for her Masters, at Columbia.

She is currently the Assistant Superintendant for a prestigious school district in New York State.

And she is not far from completing her PhD.

"Dr. Didi," I joke. So proud that she is as successful as she is.

SO, SO proud.

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

My life with my siblings spans two continents. I think as I write some of my posts to introduce you to them, it will be clearer why my heritage plays such a big part of me.

It is present in virtually every memory, or tied to it in some way.

I am glad you got to meet one of my amazing siblings. I know this was a long post, but sometimes, there are some things that you just can't shorten.

Namaste,
Kiran

Reconnecting when its really just because your droid is malfunctioning and you are too lazy to resolve the issue

2011-01-25T21:26:00.004-05:00

Today, I was sitting in the lobby of my hotel, waiting for a cab to get me to take me back home. I get restless and I feel very awkward when I am not doing something with my hands. I imagine that knitting might be a good outlet for me, but really, I didn't have time to find an A.C. Moore.

So I did what I normally do at times like these and harass my friends and co-workers with whatever is on my mind.

LUCKY THEM!!!

So I am sitting there on my freaking Droid 2 which I have deducted is the following:

1) an utter piece of crap
2) has a serious dysfunctional hardware issue going on - but I am too lazy to lose all the things I have put on it
3) I had sabotaged myself and downloaded some horrible apps that were slowly choking the minimal power of this existing phone

So, I am calling my "lucky" colleague, whose name is Aaron (who often quite heroically puts up with some of my rants) thinking I am ready to complain about this, and bitch about whatnot and tell him my theories on the world (you know, because I was bored and this is just what you do to overstressed colleagues at times like that).

A voice answers.

"Aaron. It's me." I say nonchalantly.
"Oh -hey. How are you?" I hear a male voice in the background.
"Dude, we have so much to talk about. You in the office on Thursday?"
"Um, who is this?"
At this point, I am exasperated.
"Aaron, stop being such as A^&^. It's ME."

Pause.

"This is Aaron Sylvester. Who the heck are you?"

Silence.

"Aaron, like from college Aaron?"

"Depends, I guess."

"Oh shit, this is Kiran Ferrandino. I think I accidentally dialed you because you come up in my Facebook contacts. I fully blame my Droid."

And albeit a short conversation - it was one of the best accidental dials. It was great to hear a voice from my past - of a person I had always held in high esteem.

And I realized that while we all have so many friends on our Facebook page or through other avenues of connection - why shouldn't we make more accidental calls?

This year I vow to accidentally call (I believe my Droid will be fully cooperative) old faces and friends from my past.

Let's do it friends. We get enough prank or bullshit calls in our lives. Why not make a few calls of your own to someone who would never expect it?

I mean, I don't want you to be like - bunny-killer stalker or anything.

But just remember that there are so many people you are connected to. And while life gets crazy and we rely so heavily on email, facebook and texting to keep us in touch.

Remember that there is nothing as powerful as your voice.

Hoping you make an accidental connection today too.

Namaste,
Kiran

You're No Ordinary Flower

2011-01-23T19:31:00.007-05:00

My parents are practical people.

Most of the time.

My father, especially, is a man who has spent much of his life driven more by need than passion, duty over selflessness.

Which is why I guess I am always so amazed by this one particular story about my father.

A story that has a huge impact on my identity, on who I was raised to be and an even greater impression of the man I call my father.

Growing up in an impoverished village to a very poor family, in a town where to this very day, there is no school house or fresh water supply, my father was born into a surname.

A surname that is as common as Smith in America. Russo in Italy. Fernandez in Mexico.

My father's last name was "Das."

It's a name that many Indians have. It doesn't always clearly identify where you are from in India, or potentially even which "caste" you are from. To clarify when I say caste, I mean the social stratification system which is still prevalent in India in determining class and economic and societal associations, practices and norms.

So one day, I believe it was as he was leaving for college and taking some fairly pivotal exams, my father decided to do something so unlike him, so unimaginable to me, that to this day, I still wish I could get into that head of his to understand.

He decided to change his name.

And with that decision made, my father started signing all official documentation with the following last name:

Kairab.

For some reason, it was easier for him to go forward from that day on with the last name of "Kairab" over "Das."

And with that name, he carved a new identity for his future family, some of the only ones to hold this name in the world. I have checked fairly thoroughly. It is possible that there are other "Kairabs" elsewhere, but if so, I am not aware of them.

I love my maiden name, which I have still maintained and hold onto proudly now as a middle name.

In ancient Sanskrit, Kairab translates into "flower that blooms in the night."

Given what sometime seen as ethnically ambiguous looks, people would often ask me where "Kairab" was from. When I would respond, "India" they would sometimes say - oh, yeah, oh yeah - I know some other Kairabs.

Bullshit.

And you know, I really loved the uniqueness and this reminder that my father had a moment where he did something unexpected, something totally for himself.

When John asked me why it was taking me so long to change my name, I waffled. I mean, of course - who "likes" dealing with:

The Social Security Administration,
DMV,
All your airlines where you have your frequent flier miles lined up,
credit card companies,
all of your previous employers who still handle your IRAs/401Ks/etc?
Let's not forget banks, getting new checks, new passports.
Library cards.

Frankly, it sucked.

But while the very "un-fun" aspect of changing my name WAS a major contributor to my desire to start the process- there was something about John's observations that were true.

A part of me didn't WANT to change it.

That realized that this name was something that always tied me to that part of my father. The free and uninhibited part - the parts of him which I had been able to see so little of in my own life, during what has been a very hard and challenging life for him.

I think about the beauty of that name. The pure poetry of it. For when you think about a flower that blooms in the night, I know my thoughts turn to something beautiful growing in something dark. Something finding light and sustenance within itself where perhaps there is no sun or hope of future brightness.

And when I think of the story of my father's life, I can say with absolute truth, that there really is no better word to describe how I feel about this man who created a life for himself through education - never giving up despite battles of malnutrition, poverty, lack of clean water and medicine.

When things are dark in your own life, I think there is a lesson to be learned within all of us that something beautiful can be borne from darkness.

We see it throughout history. Whether it is the brave few who opened their homes to protect their Jewish friends and neighbors during World War II - at a time when decency was long forgotten and fear and hate-filled propaganda dictated action for so many.

We see it around us. We see it in the face of the young men and women who risk their lives for this country every day. Their acts of bravery in full bloom continents away as they fight in darkness, isolation and fear.

We see it in ourselves and the neighbors around us.

So let's honor it today.

No matter how dark things may seem in life, you always have the power to bloom.

Namaste,
Kiran

Namaste

2011-01-18T13:23:00.004-05:00

"Namaste"

It's a greeting used very commonly by Indians and for those of you who have ever been to a yoga class, its most likely something you are familiar with.

At the end of a yoga class, before you walk out the door, the teacher will usually lift their hands together, clasp them and slightly lower their head and say "Namaste."

"Namaste," the class will respond before rolling up their mats and going on their way - to run back into their cars, grab the kids from daycare, make that run to Starbucks.

What is lost in that exchange is the absolute beauty of the word.

"NAMASTE."

Translated from ancient Sanskrit, the word roughly translates to:

"In you I see the divine."

In.
You.
I.
See.
The.
Divine.

What a powerful thing to say. What a powerful word to bestow upon someone. And how often is it lost without any understanding of it's true beauty?

A few years ago, I was at work when an instant message popped up on my screen from an old friend. He had never been a fan of Indian food, mainly because of lack of exposure to it and apparently had to share his recent findings.

Him: Guess where I am?
Me: no freaking clue
Him: I'm on a project in Bangalore! And you were right! I am loving the food.
Me: What, is it better than that crap you call food that you get in Ireland?

(again, ignorance can run both ways. I am sure Irish food is just lovely. I am positively sure. Like 87% sure.)

Him: Ha ha. No seriously. Sambhar and dosa for breakfast. So good.

My mouth started salivating as I looked at the stale bagel on my desk. Rumble. Ughh. I needed to turn the subject away from food.

Me: Have you learned any Hindi?
Him: Not really. Everyone I work with speaks English.
Me: Ok - well you should know this one. Namaste.
Him: What is that?
Me: It's a greeting. It means in you I see the divine.

Silence. I could see . . . typing in the background.

Him: Well, I never knew you felt that way about me. This is awkward.
Me: No. It's just a greeting. You should learn it. Appreciate and say it while you are there.
Him: Yeah, anyway - I uh . . gotta go.

He probably made a hasty retreat back to some good food while I was stuck with my nasty old sesame bagel.

"Namaste to me," I thought as I threw the stale bagel in the trash.

But isn't it true?

Can you imagine if we each looked at each other and acknowledged that within each of us - there is something divine, something special, something that matters and means more than all the bazillions of cells that comprise our bodies.

That every child's smile.
Every stranger's tears.
Every hope that lingers in the hearts of people you will never know across the world.
Every dream that grows in a young person's hearts about their destiny.

That all of it, in some way, is divine?

I know. I know. You are now thinking about that jerk that ran the four way stop sign in his mini van practically running you off the road this morning.

Or you are thinking about the horrific act of violence that took Arizona by storm over a week ago.

Or you are thinking about two towers falling and collapsing with the hearts and dreams of everyone within.

How do you reconcile that?

I just think, in the most simplistic way possible, that if we spent more time embracing the divinity within each of us and realizing that we are all part of this crazy messed up world together, maybe - just maybe - we would all believe in ourselves a littler more.

And in embracing ourselves - we would all be just a little more tolerant. A little more empathetic. A little more respectful.

And a lot more loving.

Yesterday was Martin Luther King's Day. I think about the belief system he espoused and the ones that Henry David Thoreau and Mohandas Gandhi had all embraced in their teachings.

And I have to believe that we are all, in some way, meant to embrace that divine

Namaste,
Kiran

An Unquenchable Thirst . . .

2011-01-13T21:56:00.006-05:00

I often ask my father about the things he reflects on in his life now, as he is in his 70's. I think of the life that he came from and the one that he gave me in this country - and the contrasts are often such sharp juxtapositions of each other.

When I was 1, I was crawling up and hitting the television in our house or banging on the toys in my family room.

When he was 1, he was crawling on the dirt floors of his village in India, already malnourished and struggling to meet many of the milestones I was meeting.

When I was 4, I was jealous that my next door neighbor could already read.

When my father was 4, he was just gaining the ability to walk. Years of malnourishment had lead to delays in core milestones for him.

I was 13, I was angry that my parents told me I would never be able to date.

When my father was 13, he was worried about how he would find a way to educate himself to make enough money to support his entire family - including all of his younger siblings.

The stark contrasts between our lives extend for so many years . . . I can hardly name them all here . . .

As I approach my 35th birthday, I question where I am in my life and some of the direction it has taken. Am I fulfilled? Am I doing what I want? Where do I want to go from here?

When my father turned 35, he realized that he was going to living a life in pretty much extreme blindness and that it would degenerate till almost complete blindness. Doctors explained that this may have been the direct result of the malnourishment he went through as a child.

So I ask my father to tell me his stories. And to share the things that he wanted to achieve in his life. Frankly, I am so proud of what he has done, though I know he has stumbled - as we all do - in some of the decisions that he has made.

My father was a man who had dreams. I don't know how many of them he has been able to fulfill. I feel like so much of his life has been about ensuring that other people's dreams were achieved. But I wanted to know what his were . . .

In an in-depth conversation with my father one day, he lamented that the one thing he is so sad he has not done was to create a clean water source for the people in the village he was born.

This small village in the northern recesses of Bihar (this is like Compton, for Americans) where my father was born is a place I have only visited twice in my life. People walk miles to get water. Children do not go to school so that they can lug back water from local streams back to their families.

The water is often contaminated.

The sewage systems are not something many Americans would be able to comprehend.

As my father has aged, such a venture is in many ways impossible for him.

But I still think about his dream quite often. And for now, his dream has become my dream.

The need to fulfill it is not only for him, but resides within the deepest part of me. My father's dreams and my own are intrinsically tied.

So I dream of a day when no child goes thirsty.

When no man has to drink contaminated water, polluted with human waste.

Where people can bathe in water without the risk of being exposed to arsenic.

How is it that such a simple thing - water - is overlooked for such a large portion of this world?

My New Year's Resolution for this year is to do what I can to make sure I can help as many people as possible receive one of the most basic resources they need.

I ask you to go to Water.org TODAY to learn more about what this really means and how we might be able to make a change.

If nothing, please just take a hard look at the facts.

http://water.org/learn-about-the-water-crisis/facts/

Let no child, woman, man go thirsty. Ever.

"We have the ability to provide clean water for every man, woman and child on the Earth. What has been lacking is the collective will to accomplish this. What are we waiting for? This is the commitment we need to make to the world, now." - Jean-Michel Cousteau

Kiran

Shit my kids say . . .

2010-12-21T00:08:00.000-05:00

The other day, I was snuggling with Shaila, my three year old, in bed. We were spooning and I was trying to sleep as she tried to regale me with the politics of pre-school. It's all very complicated, and frankly, well - I would have much rather been sleeping.

Suddenly I felt a little pocket of air hit my stomach.

Silence.

"Um, Shaila? Did you just toot?"

Silence.

"Shaila? Was that a toot? It's ok - just wondering."

"Yes, MOMMY. It WAS. I toot a lot."

"Ok. When you are at school, do you toot?"

"OHHH. YEAH. All. the. time."

Well, good to know, I guess.

"Do you admit it?"

"Of course not, I just walk away really fast and don't say "excuse me."

She is SOOO my daughter.

XOXO,
Kiran

Losing Your Voice

2010-12-20T11:38:00.004-05:00

I have always loved music.

It's always been a part of my life. I never had a nanny, but I did have MTV. Every year of my life is related to the songs of that year. That's how I remember how old I was when a memory comes up.

Returning from India with my mom in 3rd grade - "Feed the World," "I Want to Know What Love is." 9 years old.

Dancing in our living room to "Separate Ways" by Journey with my cousins. 7 years old.

Unable to take music or instrument lessons as a child, I was pretty much a passionate observer until my mid twenties when I picked up a guitar and taught myself how to play.

From there I went on to moonlight for a few years as a lead singer in a DC cover band where I sang for really drunk girls and even more drunk guys who treated me like a human jukebox.

"Do Journey next!" yelled the wasted girl in the corner, making out with the frat boy in the corner.

"Freebird! Do Freebird!!" said the drunk jackass who assumed that EVERY singer in EVERY bar ANYWHERE in the world has not heard that dozens of times by others of equal intellectual capacity as that loser.

"Show me your $@S!" this could be any particular body part. It was not usually a request to see my elbows, which were often on display. Or my fibula or anything like that.

Yeah. Those were good times.

Good times.

In a way, they were some of the best times for me. I got to play with good friends, and there was something so freeing for me in being able to belt out songs that nobody expected this little petite Indian girl to ever be able to do justice to.

I never got to do our originals out at those types of gigs. It was kind of directly correlated to the level of drunk assholes in the crowd.

Drunk, drunk crowd = no originals.
slightly inebriated crowd = sneak a few in there and hope they don't notice

My husband's friends were avid supporters of my original tunes though. They would come in there, and any time some vapid twenty-something screamed, "Do O.A.R!" (which made me feel more like, "Dance, Monkey! Dance!") John's friends (you know who you are. Ok, if you don't it was always Ryan, Des and Garth - I love you guys) would counter with a request for one of my originals.

And then when I would get the chance to do those originals, these cute, athletic soccer players would huddle in front of the stage and belt out every word with me in unison. It confused the drunk girls who now saw these good looking guys singing out songs which they had never heard. And of course they would try to dance all up on the guys and pretend they knew the words, but it was all good.

I miss playing. I miss singing.

I don't miss the drunk assholes. But I do miss being able to perform and losing myself for a few hours to just my own voice. It probably isn't the best voice, but it's mine, and I was so glad to find it. To know that there was music in me.

This year, I promise to myself that I will pick up that guitar again. I will write songs that no drunk girl would ever want to listen to. I will write songs that would get me booed off a stage at a crowded irish pub as folks are looking for the right "hook-up" song.

I will write songs for me.

Never stop singing.

XOXO,
Kiran

Defining Heroes . . .

2010-12-19T21:52:00.006-05:00

A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself. - Joseph Campbell

I think the word "hero" means different things to different people. On the one hand you have Olive Oyl fainting into the arms of Popeye on one of his many rescues of her from the callused and greasy hands of Brutus.

"My hero!" she announces, as she collapses into his arms, her toothpick legs looking jointless as she gives way.

While I applaud Popeye always coming to Olive's rescue, after a while I kind of have to think, "Maybe she is not the right one for you. And maybe it's not that you're a hero - it's just that you're stupid and love the wrong woman."

In many ways, I do believe that we potentially overuse that term. Idols are often confused with heroes and next thing you know, you have got some confused teenager swooning over Justin Bieber, calling him her "hero."

(Although I must say, if anyone is confused, I would be the first to admit it is me. I still don't understand the power that young man-child has over the young teen/tween population.)

An old friend and colleague of mine, Dave George, wrote an opinion piece for aol a few weeks back titled, "Sorry, the Chilean Miners are NOT heroes." In his piece, Dave laments the use of a word that he believes should be reserved solely for those who put their own lives on the line. That the word should be reserved for individuals like recent Medal of Honor recipient, Sal Giunta, who risked his life to save his friend in Iraq.

In his piece, he says that using the term to apply to the Chilean miners, is inaccurate. In his opinion, they are not heroes for they passively got handed a catastrophe and made it out alive.

I have been thinking about this a good deal. When I see CNN honoring the Chilean miners, I do still believe they are heroes. There is something extremely heroic to me in just managing to survive such dire circumstances without giving up hope or faith.

When I think about the past half year in Chile, as the country has tried to turn itself around and recover from an incredibly devastating earthquake, I think that what those miners represented to the people of Chile surpassed a news story event - they represented so much more to a country who saw the salvation of these men as something divine.

The survival of those men was most likely not expected given the catastrophic year or situation, but when they came through, it was like someone said to the people of Chile, and even to the world,

"Someone is watching over you. And you can never stop believing."

To me, heroes are those who have the power to inspire, to challenge your beliefs and to pull the best from you - whether it is to save your life, your voice, your rights. They allow you to see that sometimes, when your own hopes wane even in the most dire of circumstances, the power and strength of human will can get us through some amazing situations.

I don't believe that the action of being a hero requires you to give up your life, or risk your life - but it does require some level of honorable sacrifice.

When I look at men like Sal Giunta - of course he represents a hero to me. His actions in battle were so selflessly motivated in battle that they catapult him to a "super hero" status in my opinion.

Perhaps that's the distinction that Dave wishes to see made - because that's what it really comes down to - there is a stratification within those we define as heroes perhaps in the level of their sacrifice.

In the absence of Superman, Wonderwoman and Spiderman, we do have individuals who put themselves out there to serve and protect us each day.

They are all superheroes.

To me though, it doesn't change the fact that I see people who do heroic things every day.

Whether it is a teacher who has had the ability to inspire three generations of a town for her love of teaching, when she probably could have made a much more lucrative career for herself elsewhere given her own talents - I find her heroic.

Whether it is a family in mourning from the loss of their child, who channeled their grief into creating an amazing organization that will help other families go through the journey they had to endure. I find them heroic.

Whether it is a co-worker who has adopted three abandoned and abused grown siblings from a third world country to give them a life. A prayer. A chance.

That's heroic.

As we approach the holidays, I would like to tell you some more about some of the people in my own life who continue to inspire me. To drive me. To give me reason to believe we can all be so much more than we are.

My heroes.

Dave posited in his post that Webster's Dictionary "had it wrong" when it came to the definition of heroes.

According to Webster's, the definition is as follows: "hero (n): an object of extreme admiration and devotion."

I agree with Dave about that. That definition is too broad and potentially misleading. Again, it confuses idolatry with the acknowledgement of heroes. And he is right, by Webster's definition, the whole cast of "Glee" could be defined as heroes.

And I don't think they are.

Though I do like the show.

Over the next few weeks, I can't wait to tell you about some of the heroes in my life. If you have any stories you would like to share about people who amaze, inspire and take your breath away with their strength, please share.

Because no matter how old we get, we can all use some more heroes.

~ A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles. ~Christoper Reeve

XOXO,

Kiran

Sanctity

2010-12-16T13:46:00.008-05:00

Sanctity - noun - 1. The state or quality of being holy, sacred, or saintly
2. Ultimate importance and inviolability

I wrote a post the other day, called "Mommies Talk Gay" which only slightly touched on my beliefs of the breadth of rights which are denied to the homosexual community.

Gay Marriage is not a neutral topic. I get that. I get that on the spectrum of discussion, you can hit a huge breadth of believers in the very same room. I would imagine that on the spectrum, you would find people who can associate themselves to one of the bullets below, or some variation therein.

1) You can beat the gay out of anybody.

2) It's not natural. There is nothing natural about this. God did not want this. Gays bring this on themselves and if they were just "normal" and reprogrammed themselves to do as God intended, there would be not issue.

3) I have gay friends. My gay friends are nice people. We'll even have lunch together sometimes. I make sure not to eat from the same plate as them. I just prefer a "Don't ask, Don't Tell" mentality with them.

4) I love gay people. They dress well and I love to shop with them! But while I "love" them, I just don't think they should have the same rights as me. Gay marriage is a no-no.

5) Everyone should have the same rights. Period. Gay or NOT.

I think we can all identify ourselves SOMEWHERE on some spectrum of this belief system on the institution of marriage, particularly whether it should be extended to the Gay community. You probably know where I am at, but again - I am not saying your opinion is wrong - I am acknowledging that it is most likely based on a belief system that was based on your religion, family teachings, and some level of acceptance of societal norms.

But I wanted to discuss the last factor there, and perhaps one which most pervasively impacts our beliefs on this.

Societal Norms.

Growing up, I was surrounded by some degree of divorce - but it was rare - and especially in the Indian community - it was not something that was done. But I was exposed to marriages which scared the living daylights out of me. There was no concept of "sanctity" in my young mind at that time, but realizing that the union between a man and woman did not always create a sacred result was not lost on me as a child.
Sanctity. Holy.

Words of anger. Violence. Hatred. Fear. Lack of respect.

I saw what I believe were some wonderful marriages, but there were also those "other" models I saw displayed in that sacred institution of marriage. Even as a child, I knew that there were times where divorce should have been the option that those adults turned to before creating and spinning lives for their children which left them with only one goal.

Sanctity. Of self-preservation.

My friend, Suzanne, re-posted something on Facebook, and I am not sure who the originator of this thought was, but I loved reading it, because it strikes me as so true about the hypocrisy of our society and the idea that we are, in fact, trying to protect an "institution."

"So let me get this straight... Larry King has had 7 divorces, Elizabeth Taylor is possibly getting married for a 9th time, Britney Spears had a 55 hour marriage. Jesse James and Tiger Woods are screwing EVERYTHING, yet the idea of same-sex marriage is going to destroy the institution of marriage?? Really? REALLY...??"

Sanctity. Ultimate importance and inviolability.

We are so beyond that as a society and if we try to kid ourselves that we are not, we are hiding behind a reverse Harry Potter Invisibility Cloak - but not the kind where you are invisible, but one that makes society invisible to you.

Protecting the "institution" of marriage is not something that has anything to do with extending this right to homosexuals only. The increasing numbers of broken families, divorce, infidelity and spousal abuse - not only in Hollywood, Washington, our sports and news celebrities - but all around us in our own communities shed a picture that we can hardly ignore.

Why then, is the idea that two people who are committed and love each other cannot be offered the same privilege? The privilege which many heterosexuals have the RIGHT to STOMP on which so many of our own brothers and sisters are FIGHTING for.

What are we scared of? This is NOT a rhetorical question. If we extend the rights of gay marriage to our homosexual population, what is it that we believe will happen as a society? Here are some of the only things I can think of . . .

1) Straight people will become so disenchanted with the "institution" that they will divorce en masse.

2) Straight couples will break up and marry the gay partner they always yearned for, because now they can.

3) Our kids will no longer value marriage. If they see that Uncle Bob can marry his friend who is now their Uncle Shane, marriage will become tainted for them. (I don't know how or why, but is this something that might be a fear?)

If marriage is an institution that is created because man and woman are meant to procreate, if a marriage does not create a child, does that lessen the sanctity of that union?

If a marriage occurs where there is nothing but abuse and disrespect, because it is done within the "institution" of marriage, and because this marriage is still between a man and a woman, has it protected the ideals of sanctity?

I don't know. I am asking you what you think. I am not saying I have the answers.

The one thing I hope I don't come off here is this word:

Sanctimonious - adj.
Making a show of being morally superior to other people

"Sanctity" and "Sanctimonious" both trace back to the Latin word Sanctus - holy.

What I believe is holy when you discuss marriage is the idea of love, respect, and the creation of a union which surpasses the physical and the material. It is a spiritual union where two people become one to become something much bigger, brighter and greater than they might be.

Alone.

I think many parents of gay children try to shield themselves from the truth about their kids. There are those who know and encourage them to come out and be honest from the start, and then there are those who hide behind their own rose tinted glasses to hide from what is a clear reality to strangers, colleagues and friends.

I have friends who are gay who have married women because they could not disappoint their parents. Because they could not face being chastised by society. Because they believed they could "cure" themselves with the right focus.

Because they couldn't be who they are.

There is no sanctity in that.

If I have crossed a line, I guess I could apologize. But I am tired and don't feel like it today.

But if this is something that just starts an honest conversation, that's all I can ask for.

XOXO,
Kiran

The picture below has nothing to do with this post but I thought it was funny and needed to be seen.

When Saying Thank You is NOT Enough

2010-12-12T21:34:00.002-05:00

I am stuck in Vegas.

To be more clear, I am stuck at the airport.

I missed a 7 AM flight because apparently I slept through my 5 AM wake up call. Being naive, I thought "i can just catch the next flight." I hadn't quite understood the enormity of the Las Vegas rodeo. The sheer volume of cowboy hats should have tipped me off.

I also was oblivious to the enormous amounts of snow that apparently was dumped on most of america while I was enjoying the lovely conference rooms at the Aria for about 12 hours a day.

So to make a long story short, i ran in desperation to every possible ticket counter and resorted to tears, begging, pleading, blackmail (don't even ask. Desperate times call for desperate measures.)

I finally got myself on a flight on a different airline. I will go through Phoenix to another airport in DC, not the one I flew from. And not the one my baggage is at either, since IT apparently made the flight that my little waitlisted butt was not so fortunate to make. So if I do the math, my tired self will get home around 8 AM.

Still crossing my fingers on that one.

I came out to Vegas for a company conference. It was great. But i miss my kids and husband, our au pair (Fe).

I miss catching up on the day with John as we curl up and watch our favorite shows after we get the kids to bed.

I miss the warmth of that first drop of of coffee, our cheap old maxwell house that we buy in bulk from costco, and joking about which child didn't let us sleep last night (they tend to alternate. It's like they plan it). I love the laughter of the children and bustling around the house with John and Fe each morning as we stumble through our morning rituals.

I miss hugging my kids. Their sweet breath on my cheeks. Nico's overzealous and sloppy wet kisses.

The simple things. The things that make home ... well . . .

HOME.

I really, really miss them. This delay in reaching them is devastating to me.

But my impatience is selfish.

So freaking selfish.

As I was running from ticketing agent to ticketing agent, the idea that it would be ANOTHER day before I saw my children was a punch in the gut.

As I was walking through the airport, I saw a soldier. Several in fact. But this one seemed to be struggling with baggage.

"Can I help you with that?" I asked, indicating the bag he was struggling with.

He looked up at me, smiled and said, "Thanks, but I think I'll be alright." He smiled at me and despite my sadness about my travel woes, his smile lifted my heart a little.

He was a cute kid. Probably in his mid-twenties. I imagined he was most likely on the football team when he was in high school. An Eagle Scout, maybe. Just a wholesome kid, with a big grin and the kind of guy you know was well-liked.

A son.

A brother.

"Are you coming or going?" I asked, hoping that his response was the latter.

"Going," he said, the wide grin never waning. I am fairly certain my own smile faltered, because he jumped in to reassure me.

"No, no it's cool. It's my second deployment." I wasn't sure how that made his safety any more real, but I nodded my head in agreement.

"Thank you," I said. And before I could stop myself I reached out and gave this boy a hug. A big bear hug.

He didn't seem startled by the hug. He hugged me back and said,

"I'm gonna be alright."

I don't know why I reached out the way I did. He was not the only soldier I saw today, but he was the only one I thanked.

In all honesty, I wanted to reach out to every one of those men and women, some who seemed so young to be walking into the situations they will be confronting on each of their individual deployments. I wanted to hug every single one and say "Thank you."

For making the sacrifices they make.

For doing what so many of us cannot fathom.

I pray that each of them comes home.

I think about the parents, the children, the siblings, the friends who don't know with certainty when and if their loved ones will come home.

Home.

I think of that soldier's reassurance to me.

"I'm gonna be alight." And I pray for him, for his mother, his father, his wife, his child. For anyone who loves him that he is right.

A few weeks ago, I saw the 60 Minutes piece on Medal of Honor recipient,

Sal Giunta. If you have not yet seen it, please watch it on cbs.com.

It's an amazing story to hear what this young man did. Watching that video gave me chills, brought me to tears and tore at my heart.

As I sat watching it on my couch. In my home.

Home.

There is a grace and dignity to Sal Giunta which I think every American should honor.

There is grace and dignity in every single of these soldier's hearts that takes my breath away.

I will make it home. There is some level of certainty that I will. I will hug my children and John and Fe and tell them how much I missed them.

And I will pray that everyone makes it.

Home.

XOXO,

Kiran

How I Met Your Father (Part 2 & 3 Combined)

2010-12-07T20:31:00.012-05:00

Shaila and Nico,

Thanks for sticking with things over the past few days as I have taken a breather from writing out the story about how your good old dad and I met so long ago. I am guessing you already read Part 1.

You know - I was going to write this in three parts, but I am getting sick of things dragging on longer than necessary. 2010 was the year I was pissed to learn that Harry Potter and those blasted "Deathly Hallows" would have to come out in TWO different movies and that that 4th book in the godforsaken Twilight series would also be split into two installments.

Not that I watch that or anything.

But IF I did, I would have to say Team Jacob. Can you really blame me?

So I said, "Enough of that!" Besides, I only expect that I have your attention span for so long, so I am gonna use this time wisely.

Revisiting Part 1 of this letter

It's true that I had many conversations with your Nana and Nani about why I would not have an arranged marriage. My father pretty much gave up after a certain point, though I am sure he doubted my ability to ever find the right man for me. However, after a certain point, they did relent.

Granted, this was after a few torturous years. My first boyfriend EVER, a nice man by the name of Michael, bore the brunt of your Nana and Nani's wrath as they struggled with the idea that I would probably NEVER have an arranged marriage. He was a really great guy and he tried really, REALLY hard, but Nana and Nani played it really tough with him.

Like, they would glare at him. And give him the silent treatment. And throw samosas at him.

Ok, ok, they never did that. But I mean, it was BAD.

Over the years though, they loosened up a bit, and even warmed up to some of my asshole ex-boyfriends who probably didn't warrant any of their respect. (But that is for another day). And I am assuming that by the time you read this, you will have heard me say asshole at least at some point in your life, so please forgive the profanity.

The Truth

The "truth" of how I met your father is the following. In our late twenties, we were very self-aware individuals and chose to spend much of our own free time doing things like going to the library, attending poetry readings, watching classical musicians perform and visiting museums. Both avid athletes, many of our nights were spent at the gym or doing team activities.

D.C. was such an inspiring place to live if you could appreciate the full extent of the culture that was available.

It's actually a wonder that our paths didn't cross before. We even volunteered at the same soup kitchen! But for some reason, it was always on alternating nights!

It was like some kind of "sliding doors" thing except for the fact that, well . . . I'm not tall OR blonde OR Gwyneth Paltrow. (although we do both play guitar . . .)

So anyway, one day I decided to attend a special exhibit at the Corcoran Gallery. You see, for me, a life without exposure is a bland and empty existence. I was aware that others my age may have been at the bars lining up the streets of DC or clubbing in Adams Morgan.

Those types of activities were not for me. And not for your dad either.

It was an amazing exhibit on contemporary photography. I especially recall with amazing clarity these pieces by Annie Liebowitz that just blew me away.

And that's when I noticed your father. He must have noticed me admiring the piece too, so he came over and we discussed the finer points of the composition of the piece. After some more conversation, he invited me out for coffee. I agreed and that is how our courtship began.

The Rumors

But you know what? For whatever reason, despite the simplicity of my first meeting with your father, you have some aunties and uncles who remember it differently. If you ask your Aunt Sang, she has one thing to say about it (she wasn't EVEN AT the Corcoran that night) and your Uncle Craig also has mentioned a different memory. My assumption is that both John and I have some "twins" running around DC.

OR IT COULD BE that your Uncle Craig, Aunt Sang and even Auntie Roya (who oddly repeats this story as well) were more inebriated than they should have been that day.

SHAME ON THEM.

The way the rumor goes, in the late fall of 2001, and I am a little hazy on all of this, is that I had been at my friend's wedding earlier that day. Nick and Natascha's. Perhaps I drank a little at that wedding. You know, chamomile tea.

Perhaps.

So anyway, from there, Aunt Sang says I (or my twin) met her and your Aunt Tiffany for dinner in Arlington. After that we apparently went to this bar called Ozio's. Again, this is all hearsay (since I was at the Corcoran).

Well, the story goes that we get to Ozio's and it turns out that the manager and owner of the bar/restaurant had just been at Nick and Natascha's wedding. In addition, our friend Raj was bartending that night. Which also is very very odd and doesn't add up for me, because Raj was also usually very much committed to volunteer work on Saturday night, so again, this piece of fiction just seems to be fabricated out of somebody's fantasy.

Apparently people were being "festive." Drinks were consumed. In moderation of course. From what I understand, every alcoholic beverage was alternated with a refreshing beverage like guava or papaya juice or something.

Some of the members of "N Sync" showed up at the bar and your Aunt Sang says that I (my twin) yelled at the security guy as he asked everybody to move "Who the F^&k cares about them anyway? If Britney's not with them, I don't give a shit!"

But, you know that's not true, because that doesn't sound like me at all.

Right?

Aunt Tiffany says she left at that point, so cannot confirm or deny your Aunt Sang's story. According to her, we saw your father at the bar standing with your Auntie Roya and your Uncle Craig. Aunt Sang knew your dad and I knew your Auntie Roya so it ended up as a big meet and greet after the whirlwind that was "'N Sync" had been cordoned up to the VIP area.

Auntie Sang says that I brazenly (come on now? when I have I EVER been brazen? really, kids) went up to your father and said the following.

Me: "Oh my god. You are such a hot Indian guy!" (huh?)

She says that apparently your dad was really confused (of course he was confused - he was at the Corcoran exhibit - hello!?) and that he looked at me quite calmly.

John: "Uhhh . . . I'm not Indian. I'm actually half-Italian and half . . ." I (I mean, my twin) cut him off before could go any further.

Me: "Of course you're Indian! Look at you. You know, you shouldn't be ashamed of your heritage. It's really important to take pride in your roots." I told him all-knowingly, Aunt Sang reported.

I was on a roll, apparently.

Me: "So you say your name is John. Like, what's that short for? Jagdish?"

John: "Um . . . seriously. It's just John. Not Jagdish or anything . . . um . . . Indian."

Me: "Whatever." Sigh. "It doesn't really matter. Gosh my parents are going to LOVE you!" my twin exclaimed.

(Which I think would have been kind of a bunny boiler type of moment for anybody)

At this point, Aunt Sang says she was trying to just get my evil twin out of there, because she thought that kind of behavior was embarrassing. Which you know is bad if even Aunt Sang was embarrassed.

Uh - uh. Apparently not done yet.

Me: "So it was nice meeting you."

John: "It was nice meeting you too." (Yeah right, he was probably like - get me back to the Corcoran, and make it fast)

Me: "Well, you know, I have a number."

John: "Well, you know, I have a girlfriend."

OUCH.

And kids, this is the part that makes it a clincher that it was not ME, because apparently the next lines out of my impostor's mouth was:

"Well I don't see her anywhere." wink. wink.

Why, the nerve.

And your dad (ok, ok, your dad) said to me (ok the charade is up! yes, it was really me)

John: "Seriously, it was nice to meet you, but I DO have a girlfriend in California."

As luck would have it, I was fairly happy from all of the festivities that day so did not carry any eternal scars as your Aunt Sang and I made our way back to Arlington in our usual manner and probably snarfed down a pizza once we got home and passed out (but not before saying a bedtime prayer!).

Wait! So How Did it End?

A year to almost the day later, I was in Georgetown with your Auntie Roya, again doing volunteer . . . uh forget it. We were going to a new brand spanking waterfront bar that Raj (I don't know how he found the time! We all know he was committed to community work on Saturday nights!) was again tending bar.

I think it was related to charity or something.

John came up to Roya and I. They hugged and talked. Her sister was there and asked him if he was a Bollywood actor. I was a little hazy on who he was. My days at the Corcoran took up a lot of mental energy. And I had quite honestly, forgotten him, but I started recollecting that I knew him somehow . . .

John: "Do you remember meeting me at Ozio's last year?" Ahhh, it started to come back.

Me: "Oh yeah." Gosh so embarrassing. "You're the guy who won't admit he's Indian."

John: "Well, I don't have that girlfriend anymore."

Pause. I thought about it but there was only one thing to say . . .

Me: "Well go ahead and buy me a drink, Jagdish!"

And as they say, the rest is history . . . .

Craig and Sang - were even in our wedding after all those crazy rumors.

XOXO,
Kiran

For You . . .

2010-12-06T23:04:00.005-05:00

A few days ago, I posted a family video montage of a photo shoot our family did, courtesy of Julie Monticello.

The song that I had selected for the montage was one that I thought was so perfect for that day. If you haven't ever heard of the singer, Peter Bradley Adams, please acquaint yourself now. This song is so tender and everything I want to tell my children about what I hope they already know they can expect of me.

Even if things change over the years. Even as the years may change the relationship we have today as mother and children.

Even when they stop thinking I am cool (that's soooo haaging on a thread already).

EVEN when they piss me off to no end and start.

EVEN AFTER they come home with strange piercings and a respond to conversations where I am talking and they are smirking.

(Or maybe not smirking - maybe I am misjudging that arrogant little turn of the lips because of that new stud tongue ring they got put in . . . .)

ARGGGH.

So Nico is 16 months.

Shaila is 3.

I may have some time until the scenarios I am playing out comes to fruition but who the hell knows.

It all goes by so FREAKING fast. Especially my fleeting coolness. Or the very pretense of it.

But regardless of how or why things change, I think this song epitomizes what I hope they always know John and I will give them.

I watched a bootleg version of this on line. Peter said - "it's not a sad song. It's a love song. It just . . . sounds sad," as the sound of laughter met his song's introductions.

I disagree. I don't think it's sad. I think it's perfect. Just listen.

"For You" - Peter Bradley Adams

If your wandering ever leads you to a place where you don't know which road to choose leave your worries behind take the road that leads to mine and I'll be waiting there for you

If your dreaming ever wakes you and you find your dreaming wasn't true wipe the sleep from your eyes leave the nightmares behind and I'll dream a better dream for you

If your fortune ever fails you and you're down without a dime to see you through there's still luck that you can find you can have a piece of mine yeah, I'll make a wish for you

If your lover ever leaves you and you find yourself with no one left to lose you don't have to be alone take the road that leads you home and I'll be waiting there for you...

...I'll be waiting there for you

There are a number of eloquent young musicians out there - but I would add this guy to your playlist.

All rights to this song belong to Peter Bradley Adams - just wanted to give a shout out to an amazing lyricist whose songs have really touched my heart. Please take a trip to iTunes ASAP ;-)

XOXO,
Kiran

How I Met Your Father (A letter to my children in 3 parts)

2010-12-02T23:51:00.006-05:00

Dear Shaila and Nico. I love you guys so much. You see me and your daddy together and we have some pretty amazing moments as a family.

Especially when it's not Sunday and your dad is not watching football.

Moving on . . .

One day I know you will ask about how your father and found each other and “collided” to then forge a life together.

So I wanted to explain a few things to you to understand what all of this really meant - and how you two beautiful (most of the time) beings have come into our lives.

Expectations . . .

Growing up as a second generation Indian-American, your Nana (My father) and your Nani (my mother) had great aspirations that I would follow the traditional path and custom of finding a nice boy through an arranged marriage. Of course, the boy would have to be smart, tall, preferably a Doctor or Engineer. Or just someone who had a job that sounded important. Looks would matter, but as long as he had all his teeth, I don't think your Nana and Nani would have cared too much.

I would then have my perfect little Indian family and I would learn great Indian recipes from my husband (The Doctor's) mother. The sound of the latest Indian movie or show would be blaring in the background as my little Indian children – my perfect little Indian children - danced and sang to Indian songs straight from Bollywood.

Of my own siblings, three out of four had arranged marriages. Your Mumma (mother's brother) in Florida is the only one who went against the grain and married outside of an arranged marriage and to a wonderful woman (your Beth Mammi) who is Irish American, full of her own rich traditions.

I am sure Indian mothers wept when my brother, a tall, handsome, Indian doctor, came off the market.

The Reality

I wasn't having it.

No sirree.

I loved my parents and loved my Indian heritage. But of my siblings, I was the only one born here. I grew up on Coke, episodes of “Three's Company” and lots and lots of MTV. I read romance novels and saw what true love could really get you.

I wanted to go to my prom. I wanted to get asked out on dates.

(This was problematic because no boys ever liked me in middle or high school).

But still! I knew that I wanted to choose my own life partner . . .

I think my parents were fairly certain they could break me of this. They tried several tactics/ Most of them involved yelling at me. Then it moved to quiet conversations about how I could “learn to love someone.” Then there were the statistics on Indian marriages and how few of them end in divorce.

“Seriously?” I asked my father.

“Of course, Beti (daughter). How many people do you know in our Indian community who are divorced?” Papa answered.

“Can I ask you a question, Papa?” Rhetorical. You know I would anyway.

“Ok.”

“What is the average length of an Indian wedding ritual. You know. In India.”

“Well, it could take a few days. Maybe 8 – 10 days. First, you have to . . . “

“That's your answer.”

“What answer?” my father asked.

“Why Indian people don't get divorced. They would feel like jerks after making everyone spend 9 days of their lives to see it end in failure. Way more pressure than here. So what? You lose a day of your life."

"BIG Difference, Papa. BIG." I tried to sound like Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman" but that was lost on him.

Oh, Papa.

He didn't agree. But I am sticking to my point here.

So, see Shaila and Nico - there were a lot of things I was thinking about when I met your father, while your Nani and Nana were scheming (yes, scheming is the appropriate word) to figure out how to get someone to take their last kid off the market.

The next post is going to be about: How I Met Your Father, Part 2 - The Story I will tell you and you better believe. Like as in Santa Clause believe.

And then in Part 3, I will tell you everything. Since you can't read for a long time, I feel fairly secure in this. Plus I will not allow you on the internet till you are at least 16 anyway.

Love you with all my heart.

Kiran

A Great Giveaway - Funley's Stix in the Mud

2010-12-01T08:00:00.010-05:00

I have an online shopping problem.

Like, BIG time.

My husband jokes about it relentlessly. But his jokes are not really “jokes.” They are more like “ha, ha, ha” look at my crazy wife kind of jokes.

It is no wonder that at the age of 3, my daughter Shaila shouts out “It's FedEx!” whenever the doorbell rings no matter what time of the day it is. Halloween was very confusing for her, as that was one of the few times she wasn't looking after the big white truck as it careened down our street.

“The FedEx man is sneaky!” she says, even as I applaud him for his sneakiness – for perhaps it's another package I can just kind of “sneak” into the house unbeknownst to John.

A few weeks ago, a large box arrived. I had come home late from work that day, so was ambushed by both John and Shaila in unison.

“What did you order!?” asked John.

“Mommy, that FedEx man is so sneaky! He never lets me catch him!” she exclaimed.

I looked at the box on the table. It was big. Quite large, in fact. And I had NO CLUE what was in it.

My first thought was:

“Have I drunk bought anything on Amazon lately?” This perhaps seemed like the most likely scenario.

After opening the box though, I discovered it was a shipment of some amazing products.

Ok – you guys know me. You know I don't review products or give away stuff. So this HAS to be good.

“Kiran!?” John yelled in his best Ricky Ricardo voice. (Trust me, way less endearing than on Desi Arnaz).

I opened the box to find an assortment of treats from the Funley's “Stix in the Mud” product offerings.

Three flavors: Peanut Butter, Caramel and the Original Chocolate.

After John gave me some more dirty looks, he opened the Peanut Butter box.

"AUggh." gulp. "Myihbjh." gulp. "God!" Gulp. "What are these?" he looked at me in disbelief.

(Translation: Oh My God. Deliciousness.)

So here's the deal. What I received due to the amazing marketing team at Funley's was a sample of their FANTASTIC "Stix in the Mud" products. After I pried them away from my husband's hands, I gave them a better look.

Here are the details.

100% all-natural

No preservatives

No trans fat

No high fructose corn syrup

No artificial anything

Whole grain flour cookie bits inside

Unique: homemade recipe cookie cluster

Salty-sweet snacking chocolate treat

Individually wrapped pieces for self-control

Kosher

Loved by kids ages 4 to 94

ECO-FRIENDLY: 100% recycled gable box

I know that of amidst all of the chicken nuggets (organic - of course!!!) I feed my children, that this goodness can somehow balance out those toxins.

Right?

So anyway, the treats were a hit. Neighbors, family, friends - of all ages fell in love with the things. I even found one friend trying to steal a box but I went kung fu on them and retreived said box (Thank god! It was Peanut Butter - my favorite! Although Caramel is a close second . . .)

So here is the deal. The gracious folks at Funley's Delicious have agreed to give away a few boxes, similar to my own, with 2 boxes each of the three flavors. If you are not good at math this = 6 (six boxes - 2 of each flavor).

To be eligible - it's all so darn easy. Like easier than watching bad shows on the CW.

1) Comment on this post (1 point)

2) Become a follower of Masala Chica (2 points)

3) You MUST "Like"Funley's on Facebook (3 points - email me if you do this and say "referred by Masala Chica" when you post on their wall)

4) Retweet this giveaway with the hashtag #Funleys. (2 points)

3 lucky winners will take away the prize. Trust me - it is so worth it. Just ask my husband, who finished the peanut butter boxes in two days. I kept finding him in the closet eating then. Yes. That IS weird. He still denies it, but we don't have a dog and other lame excuses are sounding pretty weak). But I am happy - the treats are pretty healthy and the kids are HUGE fans!

And if you DON'T end up winning (tragic, tragic - I know) you can buy Funley's Stix in the Mud at some Whole Foods or online from anywhere at Amazon.com.

XOXO,

Kiran

The Ugly Side of Dora

2010-11-29T16:31:00.008-05:00

The other day I was putting on my daughter's favorite Dora the Explorer pajamas when Shaila looked up at me and matter of factly said,

“Mommy, Dora is ugly.”

I was a little taken aback and not quite sure how to answer so I tried to recover the best way I knew how.

“Shaila, why would you say that Dora is ugly?” I asked.

“My friend said she is. She isn't pretty like Ariel or Belle. Ariel and Belle are my favorite,” she confidently asserted.

“Honey, Dora IS pretty. As a matter of fact, everyone is pretty in their own way. And not only is Dora pretty, but she is smart, helpful, adventurous and kind.”

“I still like Ariel better. She's pretty.”

I looked at Shaila. Shaila, who some might say shares many of the same physical traits as Dora. Chocolate brown hair, big almond shaped brown eyes and what I consider to be beautiful tan skin. See Exhibit A.

Exhibit A. The reason she looks so sad is I just turned Dora off.

I have never quite understood my daughter's fascination with Dora and all of her exploring, but it is one of the few shows I allow her to watch quite willingly. While I am a little sick of Dora's shenanigans with her map and backpack and the uncomfortable pauses in the midst of her conversations (I hate uncomfortable pauses!) I was saddened to hear of the use of the word “ugly” coming out of the mouth of my three year old.

The Ugly Years

As a child, I was a pretty kid for a very brief period. The period between the ages of 6 and perhaps 17 or so were certainly not my best when we talk about appearance.

With a great set of buck teeth, eyes that disproportionately took up my entire face, a mass of frizzy, curly hair that it would take me years to come to some kind of truce with and a propensity to run towards the hairy side, I was an awkward, gangly mass of insecurity. My finest accessories were the large glasses that I could wear that might match the braces on my teeth that day.

The dentist would sometimes make the rubber bands purple. Or pink.

So hot.

Having known what it was to be physically pretty at some point in my life and having that attention gone, I felt the absence of that attention all that much more. Even at an early age, I understood that I was no longer one of the "pretty" girls. And I knew that I did get treated different. Teachers tended to seek out the pretty girls and the popular boys and place them on their own pedestals.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I became the smart girl. I developed my whole identity around being the one who could rock every spelling quiz or ace any test. In order to find some acceptance and attention from the adults in my life, I showed them that I was special - if not in the way of my best friends, perhaps. If the boys didn't like me, I found solace in the fact that at least I was smarter than most of them.

I was everybody's friend. I was nice to most everyone. I had a problem with the nose pickers, but mainly - I really made an effort.

What Do you Say?

So I do what I guess most parents do and I tell my daughter that everyone is beautiful and that there is something special in every person and their outer appearance. But that it's not the outer that matters. That it's all about what's inside. You know, the stuff I am supposed to say.

We all know that the world does not evaluate outer beauty that democratically. I haven't quite figured out how to explain that yet. My guess is, like me, it's a lesson she will have to address on her own that I can help guide her through. I just don't have the words too teach her about that harsh reality myself.

Our children are not blind. Shaila knows how she feels when her relatives or friends say to her, "Aren't you the prettiest thing?" And I am working to change the things I say to her to reognize her other, non-physical traits.

"Aren't you the nicest thing?" (debatable)

"Shaila, you are so smart!" (too smart for her own good),

"You are so creative" (its amazing what she can do with play-doh).

Being Both

A woman can be both smart and pretty. We all know that - I think we all do, anyway.

So here is the question. How do we empower our children - particularly our young girls - to not feel that they have to be one or the other and to cultivate that? I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas on this - as well as what you have said when you have found yourself in situations like the one I had.

As parents, ensuring our children have the proper foundation for self-esteem is one we ourselves reinforce every day through our own actions, statements and innocuous comments.

Please share your own experience/advice here at Masala Chica.

XOXO,
Kiran

Mommies Talk Gay

2010-11-17T21:17:00.010-05:00

I have read quite a few blog posts from the "Mommy Blog" community lately (Yeah, I guess I count as one of those) about homosexuality in our society - be it around advocacy of gay marriage, dealing with the possibility of gay children, worrisome cross dressing tendencies in pre-school aged children and surrounding yourselves with "like-minded" people to ensure your kids don't catch that nasty bug called homosexuality, which apparently, is going around.

There are three posts which stick out to me the most, and probably represent some of the spectrum of opinions on this.

The Right Thing to Do?

My friend Sara - from Sara Plays House - wrote a great guest post over at Scarymommy (a fantastic blog by Jill Smokler) a few weeks ago, probably one which I could relate to the most. I guess its no secret from the content of some of my posts that I am left-leaning and Sara and I share many of the same views. In addition to wanting equality for homosexual members of society, she further explains why she feels so strongly, almost viscerally, in advocating for gay marriage rights. There are several reasons, but ultimately, it comes down to the following.

What if my own child is gay? How do I want and expect that this child be treated?

In the end Sara says, you should support gay rights "because it's the right thing to do."

I'll get back to that later.

Like-Mindedness . . .

Scarymommy offered a counter-argument to this post through the voice of Gretchen, aka Texan Mama, who wrote an eloquent response around her choice of role models for her own conservative, Christian family. While I appreciate her wonderful writing style and the truthfulness in which she shared her opinion, I was a bit disturbed by the following quote on why she has issues with her child having a teacher who is a lesbian.

"I want to surround them with people who are like-minded with us. I want to provide my children with positive role models who practice and support our value system."

Let's table that one for now as well.

Pretty in Pink

It's likely that you have seen the post by Nerdy Apple Bottom which went viral, spiraling her readership from a few dozen to millions of readers in a matter of days called "My Son is Gay" and explaining how she supported her son's decision to dress up as the folically gifted Daphne from Scooby Day for Halloween and the reactions it garnered as a consequence.

While there was an immense amount of support for this woman, and the way she addressed her son's choice of Halloween costumes, there was an equal amount of vitriol and criticism of her parenting, her response to the parents who criticized her and her subsequent decision to blog about it.

If you have read Masala Chica in the past, you probably know which camp I fall into . . .

Here's some masala . . .

So this is where I put it out there. Again, this goes back to my post the other day - I don't write this blog anonymously. But I think if you know me in real life, you know that I feel this way anyway. If you don't like my lack of a filter the past few days, I totally am ok with you "unliking" this little Chica on Facebook so I don't litter your Facebook feed.

It's all good.

I don't care if my kids tell me they are gay at some point in this life.

Allow me to clarify. It's not because I don't care about them or I discount the challenges that it will raise for them. It doesn't mean that I will not worry or care about that aspect of their life. I know that life will undoubtedly present a harder path for them if that is where their hearts take them, but life is challenging.

When I say I "don't care," I mean that it will not change - ever change - any aspect of my love for them.

Growing up as a minority, in a predominantly homogeneous region of New Jersey, I know what some types of challenges are. Growing up with an Indian family, much of whom live back home still in India below poverty levels, even for that country, I know of other challenges as well - some of which my own children will never know or understand.

Race. Religion. Handicaps. Poverty. And yes, sexual orientation.

People deal with challenges every day. It's what makes us INDEFINABLY us. It's what makes the people who can succeed despite challenges like these that much more special.

So how would I EXPECT the world to treat my child if my child was gay? To be honest, my expectations are low. But I know that I would embrace my own child without any hesitation - and that, as a mother is all I will allow myself to expect.

In Sara's post, she ended her post with the assessment that you should support gay rights because it is the right thing to do. While it is "right" for me, I also understand that for some people and their way of thinking, be it founded on religious ideals, a subscription to their doctrine on societal norms - that they may not embrace this as "right."

I don't agree with those people. I will most likely never be able to change their minds.

I probably would not have been able to change people's minds about desegregating schools and water fountains in the 1950s. Some society norms and "like-mindedness" have nothing to do with normalcy, morality or values.

And no I am not saying people who are against gay rights are racists too. My point is that standards within a society are not always "right." And that feelings on these lie deeper than the surface for most people, and have been built on a foundation of an individual's own "truth" that has likely been shaped over a lifetime.

The reason I had such a problem with Texan Mama's response in "On Being Gay" is her supposition that "like-mindedness" with those she surrounds her children with will support their "value system."

Why, oh WHY do I have such a problem with this?

Because "being gay" is not a value. It's not a moral code. It's a sexual orientation - one which one does not necessarily choose. Just like you can't choose to be born black or white or brown.

Blue eyed or brown eyed. Left handed versus right handed (though I know of parents who have tried to "train" their kids out of that as well)

Gay is not taught. Ask parents who have tried to "teach the gay" out of their kids.

Heck - ask Dick Cheney.

As parents, we teach our children a moral code that encompasses what we hope will shape them into amazing individuals and true contributors to this society. That code is not going to be compromised whether they are straight or gay.

I mean seriously, is one of the values you teach your children to lust after members of the opposite sex?

I guess every family is different, so maybe you are teaching them that. Who knows?

I know a**holes who are straight. I know a**holes who are gay.

As long as my kids end up on the other side of the spectrum from those a***holes, gay OR straight, we're in business on the whole values thing.

One of the most basic values that my children will have though, if I get this whole parenting thing right at some point, is honesty. If they can't embrace who they are on every level, they will never be fulfilled. And if I set them up to live a live unfulfilled, a life where they must live a lie - then I have failed them.

And I could never bear that.

The idea of supporting gay rights because of the possibility that my own children might be gay isn't why I believe in gay rights either. If my kids end up hardened criminals or thieves (if we REALLY screw up that whole value system thing again), it does not mean I will support those decisions or start a prison fund for them. I mean, I might. They are my kids. But that's different.

Because we are talking about the difference between the lack of values and what is just a state of who they are - not a decision point.

I think regardless of where my kids choose to go, with the partners they choose in life -I hope that they select a partner who can reciprocate in equal parts - love, respect, honesty, passion for life, family and each other.

That is what I care about. If my daughter ends up with a man who does not respect her or foster her desire to grow, it will devastate me. If my son ends up with a woman who does not respect him or whom he does not respect in return, I will be so saddened.

I just wish them love.

A life fulfilled.

And I am there for them every step of the way.

Note: thanks to these lovely women whose ideas I did share here today which inspired this piece. Links to each of their posts were interspersed throughout this post, but if you would like to read each, here they are again.

Sara, Sara Plays House - On Gay Marriage
Gretchen, Texan Mama - Is Gay Ok?
Nerdy Apple Bottom - My Son is Gay

Kiran