words like a paper cut stinging all across your chest
trying to get things out of my head so i can focus on homework.
Thursday, February 7th, 2009:
This morning I woke up dreaming I was at a high school reunion. I was sitting next to people in an auditorium, with my dad on one side, and Karen Kao was presenting something or announcing events. We were looking through scrapbook-like things that had photos and stories and such of memories and whatnot. I like Karen, so I was actually happy to see her and more amenable to this whole reunion idea.
I picked up a scrapbook thinking that I wouldn't be interested because I'm never in any of them. (Like for the yearbook-I always stayed out of pictures because I didn't want my parents to be aware of how the only groups I was involved in were LGBTQ or anti-racism or peace activism related. The LGBTQ thing was a no-go, and the rest were indications of being a troublemaker that my father while approving of in theory, would worry about nonetheless. "September 11 changes things, beta," he said, "tread softly and do not forget your last name is Khan." I didn't exactly ignore him, but I didn't worry too much, as I wasn't doing anything extreme enough to get in trouble in our liberal-bent little town. Interestingly, in light of Barack Obama's campaign and ascending to presidency, even my father has come around to be able to say "It is a little different for you [than me]. You are an immigrant, but you grew up here. You are of these people. Who knows, perhaps you and your brothers are entitled to some confidence [in being American]." )
On the second page I found a picture of myself as a child, in red overalls and white sweater, reaching up for something, with a story beneath, written by my dad about what I was doing. It was a pretty long story, creative; cute. I didn't get to finish reading it in my dream before waking up. The odd thing about this is that my dad doesn't do anything creative, but he did used to keep journals and diaries (which I would secretly read). The writing was a bit like that.
At this point in life-with the current estrangement between my father and I, we haven't spoken for a year other than the time he swore at me over the phone after my mom left him to come stay with me. I was unsure of how our relationship worked, but this unease was subdued in the dreamscape.
I woke up after having only glanced at the story, meaning to read it, and ended up filling in details myself.
The overalls and sweater were iconic-they are in many real-life pictures of me from that age: curled up against a conference table in Pabna, waving a pamphlet on immunization in Nator, chewing on the laces of my hoodie and clutching at my dad's leg while he gave a speech on dental hygiene in Bhangura, face crumpled in sympathy as I watched children waiting in line to get their shots in Bagatipara, doodling enthusiastically into prescription pads in dad's office in Chatmohor. (My father took his camera everywhere he went, and wrote a one-line description along with a time-stamp on the back of all his pictures. I used to be rather fond of going through them and asking questions. 1)
The way I hear it, my nana-nani (maternal grandparents) took care of me up to about age two. My mother eventually had to go back to grad-school, and while she was finishing up her Masters in History at Rajshahi, my father was transferred from his first posting in Coxbazaar-the Bay of Bengal coast, to Nator which was closer to the rest of us in Shirajganj.
As part of the first generation of doctors since Bangladesh attained independence, he spent most of his time traipsing all over the Midwestern part of the country on public-health excursions, holding seminars and conferences, promoting education and training health-workers in rural areas, that sort of thing.
Most of this travel was via motorcycle, so as soon as I was old enough to be trusted to latch on to him and not let go, I went along with him on these trips more often than not. (I'm not sure if sometimes he strapped me to himself first, but the memories I have include him keeping up a conversation to make sure I'd stay awake for the long trips, and not fall off. Incidentally, he still does this with me and my brothers in the car, though there is no chance of us falling inside a CRV with seat-belts and all.) He preferred having me with him-whether because he didn't quite trust leaving me with servants, or he thought I'd learn something even though this was before I started to form lasting memory, or from some newfangled idea of parenting psychology-I could always be spotted in the pictures of his work, wearing the tried and true travel uniform of overalls and sweaters, and was generally the focal point of his journal entries.
Jaan (heart/life/beloved), he would write, I assume addressing it to my mother in her absence, beta dine dine joto boro hochche, toto buddhi goreche. Kal amake buker dudh khaoanor cheshta korlo. Jokhon jiggesh korlam ke shikhayche, bollo, "Ami je tomar ma! Ma dudh khaoayna?" (as she grows bigger by the day, she gets more precocious. Yesterday she tried to breastfeed me. When I asked her who taught her this, she said, "I'm your mother! Don't mothers feed you milk?")
I should take a moment to explain a few language-related things: first, that in Bangali culture, it is customary to refer to one's children or children in the same generation as one's children that are beloved as "ma" or "abba", meaning "mom" or "dad". It's a form of endearment as well as an aiding echo of the child's attempts to call his or her parents. Some may see it as a form of cutesiness that tortures the child with confusion and impedes language-learning.
At any rate, apparently as a three year old, I experienced some confusion about whether it was possible that I really was my father's mother-because if so, did that mean that my dadi (paternal grandmother) would somehow become me once she died and did this make the Hindus right about reincarnation and provide proof that us Muslims were wrong? I digress.
The other thing to note is that in his journal entry my father referred to me as 'beta', the masculine/neutral form of "child", rather than the female-specific "biti". I remember that this came up a few times in my parents' explanations to other parents-how it was not a sign that they had wanted a boy, but that they did not want to impress gender-constraints on me as a child, and only called me what came to them as an expression of love. As it happens, my parents didn't start referring to me as "biti" until I was more than half way through college. I suppose by now they can no longer escape the idea that I'm somewhat of a grown woman and (I'd hope) rather proud of how I've pulled through on that.
1I should someday write down the (rather embarrassing) story of how I re-realized proof of where I was conceived.
Thursday, February 7th, 2009:
This morning I woke up dreaming I was at a high school reunion. I was sitting next to people in an auditorium, with my dad on one side, and Karen Kao was presenting something or announcing events. We were looking through scrapbook-like things that had photos and stories and such of memories and whatnot. I like Karen, so I was actually happy to see her and more amenable to this whole reunion idea.
I picked up a scrapbook thinking that I wouldn't be interested because I'm never in any of them. (Like for the yearbook-I always stayed out of pictures because I didn't want my parents to be aware of how the only groups I was involved in were LGBTQ or anti-racism or peace activism related. The LGBTQ thing was a no-go, and the rest were indications of being a troublemaker that my father while approving of in theory, would worry about nonetheless. "September 11 changes things, beta," he said, "tread softly and do not forget your last name is Khan." I didn't exactly ignore him, but I didn't worry too much, as I wasn't doing anything extreme enough to get in trouble in our liberal-bent little town. Interestingly, in light of Barack Obama's campaign and ascending to presidency, even my father has come around to be able to say "It is a little different for you [than me]. You are an immigrant, but you grew up here. You are of these people. Who knows, perhaps you and your brothers are entitled to some confidence [in being American]." )
On the second page I found a picture of myself as a child, in red overalls and white sweater, reaching up for something, with a story beneath, written by my dad about what I was doing. It was a pretty long story, creative; cute. I didn't get to finish reading it in my dream before waking up. The odd thing about this is that my dad doesn't do anything creative, but he did used to keep journals and diaries (which I would secretly read). The writing was a bit like that.
At this point in life-with the current estrangement between my father and I, we haven't spoken for a year other than the time he swore at me over the phone after my mom left him to come stay with me. I was unsure of how our relationship worked, but this unease was subdued in the dreamscape.
I woke up after having only glanced at the story, meaning to read it, and ended up filling in details myself.
The overalls and sweater were iconic-they are in many real-life pictures of me from that age: curled up against a conference table in Pabna, waving a pamphlet on immunization in Nator, chewing on the laces of my hoodie and clutching at my dad's leg while he gave a speech on dental hygiene in Bhangura, face crumpled in sympathy as I watched children waiting in line to get their shots in Bagatipara, doodling enthusiastically into prescription pads in dad's office in Chatmohor. (My father took his camera everywhere he went, and wrote a one-line description along with a time-stamp on the back of all his pictures. I used to be rather fond of going through them and asking questions. 1)
The way I hear it, my nana-nani (maternal grandparents) took care of me up to about age two. My mother eventually had to go back to grad-school, and while she was finishing up her Masters in History at Rajshahi, my father was transferred from his first posting in Coxbazaar-the Bay of Bengal coast, to Nator which was closer to the rest of us in Shirajganj.
As part of the first generation of doctors since Bangladesh attained independence, he spent most of his time traipsing all over the Midwestern part of the country on public-health excursions, holding seminars and conferences, promoting education and training health-workers in rural areas, that sort of thing.
Most of this travel was via motorcycle, so as soon as I was old enough to be trusted to latch on to him and not let go, I went along with him on these trips more often than not. (I'm not sure if sometimes he strapped me to himself first, but the memories I have include him keeping up a conversation to make sure I'd stay awake for the long trips, and not fall off. Incidentally, he still does this with me and my brothers in the car, though there is no chance of us falling inside a CRV with seat-belts and all.) He preferred having me with him-whether because he didn't quite trust leaving me with servants, or he thought I'd learn something even though this was before I started to form lasting memory, or from some newfangled idea of parenting psychology-I could always be spotted in the pictures of his work, wearing the tried and true travel uniform of overalls and sweaters, and was generally the focal point of his journal entries.
Jaan (heart/life/beloved), he would write, I assume addressing it to my mother in her absence, beta dine dine joto boro hochche, toto buddhi goreche. Kal amake buker dudh khaoanor cheshta korlo. Jokhon jiggesh korlam ke shikhayche, bollo, "Ami je tomar ma! Ma dudh khaoayna?" (as she grows bigger by the day, she gets more precocious. Yesterday she tried to breastfeed me. When I asked her who taught her this, she said, "I'm your mother! Don't mothers feed you milk?")
I should take a moment to explain a few language-related things: first, that in Bangali culture, it is customary to refer to one's children or children in the same generation as one's children that are beloved as "ma" or "abba", meaning "mom" or "dad". It's a form of endearment as well as an aiding echo of the child's attempts to call his or her parents. Some may see it as a form of cutesiness that tortures the child with confusion and impedes language-learning.
At any rate, apparently as a three year old, I experienced some confusion about whether it was possible that I really was my father's mother-because if so, did that mean that my dadi (paternal grandmother) would somehow become me once she died and did this make the Hindus right about reincarnation and provide proof that us Muslims were wrong? I digress.
The other thing to note is that in his journal entry my father referred to me as 'beta', the masculine/neutral form of "child", rather than the female-specific "biti". I remember that this came up a few times in my parents' explanations to other parents-how it was not a sign that they had wanted a boy, but that they did not want to impress gender-constraints on me as a child, and only called me what came to them as an expression of love. As it happens, my parents didn't start referring to me as "biti" until I was more than half way through college. I suppose by now they can no longer escape the idea that I'm somewhat of a grown woman and (I'd hope) rather proud of how I've pulled through on that.
1I should someday write down the (rather embarrassing) story of how I re-realized proof of where I was conceived.