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I guess I’m just in a mood where seeing this annoys me to no end. Leave it to a commercial to be the thing that encourages me to blog instead of writing a midterm paper.

Here is the first iphone advertisement which came out on Oscar night:

This is what I think while watching this video.

1. Hey look, one token person of color in a sea of white people saying “hello”

2. I bet the iphone is just for white people - and since it is so expensive, I guess it makes sense to advertise to the majority of people who are rich.

3. It’s so annoying that there were probably not enough clips of people of color saying “hello” in film/television (unless it was with some artificially thick accent, or in another language) to put into a 30 second commercial. Not only do I get to remind myself that iphone wasn’t made for “people like me”, I also get to be reminded that no one “like me” makes up even a fraction of what I see in television and film.

4. If they did put people of color in the commercial, I would probably be annoyed by the fact that they used token people of color in their advertising because it would be cheap diversity sell-out tactic. And I would probably be angry about the films/television shows the clips were taken from.

5. I can’t get over the “history of american cinema saying hello” tactic as my reminder that people of color can never really be American, especially not an American “classic” (unless they are racistly portrayed of course).

6. I hate the media. And I hate how easily aggravated I get by the media.

Sometimes I feel like I can never win. And sometimes I feel like neither can the media.

That said, I will be writing. My academic writing is my first priority these days and I don’t have to time to write papers and keep a blog consistently. I used to be able to before. But it seems I only have the capacity these days for one or the other.

I have however continue to read blogs daily and there are so many posts I always want to link to. Here are a few - not all are very recent, but they are all worth reading.

1. Bollywood and the Oscars. Ok there are two reasons why I love this post. One, I completely agree. India can never be allowed to submit “universal” films. It always has to be specific to Indianness or Indian culture (whatever that means). Two, I found out the author is a friend of one of my professors whom I respect a lot.

2. Tyra Tyra Tyra… Racialicious continues to be the blog I read most frequently (can you blame me? how can one resist the daily stories that appear about race in the media), and this post on Tyra Banks and her talk about body image are… I don’t know if I can find the words. Her sports illustrated cover makes her look even more stretched out than she does on the show. How many women of color do I know have the curves (or lack thereof) that she does? Yeah. Thought so.

3. Male privilege! Ah, Andrea, I’m so glad you continue to write for shrub.com - it makes me so happy. This is a great overview of how male privilege is seen in discussions about sexism, that comes down to the reality that being a pro-feminist man means stepping up.

4. ” Is it okay to work this damn much for the desire of trying to create change?” I’ve read this post so many times because I realized in the last week that I am probably going to go into academia and pursue a career as a professor. And there are too many questions and fears related to this question of work, and whether or not it is great work, and whether or not it is worth it, especially in thinking about “future things” such as children, and family (in fact so many questions, that this is what my next blog post is about). I really love the blog in general too, particularly the new look - it’s one of the few blogs that keeps me inspired to write!

Until next time.

My grandfather was recently diagnosed with being bi-polar. He is in his 70s, perhaps early 80s, and he was officially diagnosed in a clinic in Delhi about a year ago. I’m kind of unclear about it, because although my mother is fairly open about discussing mental health, she and my grandmother consistently worry about news that might affect my state at school (i.e. they don’t want me to worry). For the last 8-12 months (again, unclear to me), he has not spoken more than a couple of sentences at a time. Even when I went to visit, he really only spoke to me if I asked him a direct yes/no question. I can’t really get into how overwhelming it was to see a man who was part of my upbringing and realize that he was not as I remembered him. To realize that he was not how he wanted me to remember him. Being the traditional patriarch of the family, he has caused a lot of problems for his wife and daughters. But to me he still lingers in my mind as the man who taught me long division, let me pretend to cut his hair, and sang old Hindi movie songs while we walked to the mailbox.

My father is a very stoic man. He has always been very introverted - according to the bits and pieces of his childhood that I have collected from his in-laws, who were very close to his parents. He changed career paths about five years ago - hotel management to yoga instructor. All of his yoga students talk about how compassionate and sensitive my father is (my mother is considered a very “lucky woman“) - a few refer to him as “a man in touch with his feminine side”. He cooks, does the laundry, and has always had an attitude towards my mother that appears to be very liberal, progressive, and “unlike the average man”.

My father has never talked about his childhood. I’ve seen him cry three times. The first time was when I was very small, and we found out his older sister died of cancer. He loosened his tie while he sat in this chair in our apartment, put his hands in front of his face, and let out a sob that I can’t ever forget. The second time was when he left for New York for six months to work as a line chef at a holistic institute, in the time between his career change (I was about 12). The third time was when I left for college. When I think about my father, the things I hear about him, and the way that I know him, I only think of that first time I saw him cry. In a suit, failing to resist vulnerability. My father has a biting quiet temper (which appears at any time - my relationship with my father depends on my ability to consistently walk on eggshells) that is garnished by the context he grew up in: where man was patriarch, and where, at the end of the day, his wife still owes him something.

There have been five straight men in my life - three white and two men of color - who have at some point in our relationships or friendships - revealed the fears, failings, and vulnerabilities that were embedded inside them, amidst years of gender socialization. (Don’t cry. Be strong. Be a man. Don’t be weak. And never fail anyone ever.) Some of these conversations happened over a period of time, and developed because we were in a relationship, we had become close, and because I could not stand never knowing what was wrong. Other conversations were not conversations at all - they were ephemeral confessions that probably held more meaning to me that they did to them. I am not friends with the three white men anymore. The first joined the marines. The second I pushed away upon realizing the extent of our verbally abusive relationship. The third - we never were friends to begin with. Both men of color have stayed in my life, for very different circumstances that are irrelevant right now. All of them, at some point, have thanked me for being able to share something about themselves. Everytime that happens, I cry.

I cry because I’m angry that men continue to come to their token woman of color friend because they can’t explain why, but she listens the best. Because despite feeling greatful, they continue to disrespect and take advantage of me. Because they are afraid that their significant others will get to know this “side” of them.

But mostly it’s because I think of my father and my mother’s father. Men who are never going to open up. Because they can’t - for different reasons - but because they hear the voices in their heads that tell them to be men. To never talk about how they are doing. To never admit to themselves how they are doing. To never let people get too close to them. I cry because I have to accept that there are whole histories there that I might never get to hear about - because it’s not ok for them to talk about trauma and pain and the past.

And also I’m scared that I might become like that. Because it’s the only way to “make it in this world”.