Our histories must matter.

On November 8, my great aunt passed away. She was born on a tea plantation in Sibsagar, Assam, on September 11, 1925, the eldest daughter of a successful industrialist and Indian independence activist. She earned a Bachelor’s degree in economics from Benares Hindu University, and in 1945 married a man who’d served with the U.S. military in Burma during the World War II. After they married, they traveled by army transport to the United States, where she became a naturalized citizen. My great uncle earned his doctorate at Notre Dame, and in 1955 they settled in the Boston area, where she pursued a Master’s degree in education at Boston University. She loved gardening and tennis, even co-founding a tennis club with my great uncle in 1959. She devoted her life to education, teaching the third and fourth grade, along with a computer applications class, until her retirement. She was the mother of two, doctors, both, grandmother of five, and great-grandmother of three.

I learned of her death (of heart failure) on the morning of November 9, the day after the election of Donald Trump. I couldn’t shake the feeling that, suddenly, her entire narrative had suddenly been repudiated by what had just occurred. That the arc of history no longer bent towards acceptance, but that it had simply course corrected back to an immoral center of rejectionism.

I only met my great aunt a few times. On each occasion, I was newly shocked at the idea of an older relative, my grandmother’s contemporary, so thoroughly Americanized. No women of this generation that I’d encountered wore pants, talked so freely of their career, cracked jokes with such crackling, mischievous irony. Her voice lacked any discernible trace of accent, her daily wardrobe, any mekhela chadornone that I saw, anyway.

My great aunt and grandmother grew up together, spending countless days at the old tea house in Sibsagar, with its grand porches, high ceilings, creaky, haunting-yet-charmed stairways, and vast lawn, used as a campground by the Allied forces during World War II. At the age of nine, she met Gandhi at the house. Perhaps, as a teenager, she saw a union between the spirit of patriotism coursing through pre-independent India, and the rejection of fascism the soldiers embodied, knowing then that America (not Britain, of course), was in her future. Those endless summer days, running across the plantations, scanning the tea fields worked by imported laborers, wondering whether all of this, any of this, was strange or sad. I wonder, too, about her meeting a man animated by the energies of victory over unequivocal evil; we talk, now, of the loss of a post-war liberal world order. For him, then, that nascent order surely meant boundless opportunity and a place in a boundless, if harsh, world.

I imagine the shock of arrival in South Bend: Endless, blinding fields of yellow, the ritualistic rigors of a Catholic institution and communityshe knew missionaries, but seeing them up close and personal in their laboratories of faith surely allowed her to pull back the curtain on their mystical, severe ways. Then, New England, with all its attendant mythologies. Marinating in the brine of the American creation myth, assimilating gradually, year by year. The image of a young brown family coming up in middle-class, 1950s New England always provided me with a certain measure of comfort. Someone had done all this before: The arriving, the adapting, the creating of an identity and a family. My great aunt’s career decisions paid homage to my family’s tradition in education and civic betterment. There was a history there worth honoring and carrying forward. She and my great uncle would have children and give them American names, and come to know of the venerable Kennedys and the bright shining future they suggested.

In her story, there is possibility, the courage of someone forging ahead into the ominous and strange, only to be greeted on the other end as an equally ominous, strange, exotic artifact of an older, browner, yellower, mysterious world that had supposedly seen its best moments come and go. America took in the teeming Asiatic masses because, Why not, let’s see where all this goes?

Not long after her arrival in America, Washington would wise up to the realities of appearing like a horrifically, proudly racist empire, enacting changes to our immigration laws that ushered in waves of young engineering students, aspiring doctors, entrepreneurs from Asiafolks who, more often than not, kept their heads down, completed graduate school, found quiet, unobtrusive ways to insinuate themselves into the American fabric. They’d accustom themselves to being the curiosity, the diligent foreign-born who asked no questions, who kept to themselves, who reasoned that a certain kind of soft assimilation was the best way to quietly but assertively take what America had to offer.

I’ve lived my life assuming that stories like my great aunts were a thing of beauty. A confused journey, weighted with contradictions and sacrifice and pain. But a thing of beauty, universally agreed upon. Now, I know this not to be true.

We took it all too lightly. We believed that the machine of progress that brought us here, that allowed us to ensconce ourselves in prosperity, detached from the exigencies of civic life, would simply keep on keeping on. There had been enough struggle, just getting this far. Why push harder? Settling into our enclaves, encasing ourselves in the familiar. Our story could perhaps exist in parallel with the tremors shaking the world loose from its foundations, from the collapse of American industry, to the good times-are-here-again-ism of Reagan, to the utopian, capitalist triumphs of the Clinton years. We came to think of ourselves as untouched and untouchable by the rancid forces that sought to pull it apart. We were indispensable. We would vote, when moved to do so; prosper, and insulate ourselves from history. We had that luxury.

Of course, complacency is the brush that tars most all of us who are the comfortable and relatively unafflicted, immigrant or not (the joke being that the latter, of course, doesn’t really exist). For the former category, I wonder how quickly the realization has set in that no ideal of progress is ever safe or guaranteed. You must always fight. Remarkably, however, what you are fighting for is not just the right to be present and counted for, but the very right to have a story. After all, what you represent, in your very presence here, is a break with history, a cataclysmic disruption to a world order that, as far as you’ve ever known, will find a way to tolerate you. The extent of that promise now feels uncertain.

My confidence that her story, and all the stories that came after it, still have a place here has been shaken. Not beyond repair, I should say. There are still many who see us not as a disruption, but as a logical outgrowth of everything this country has to offer. But my heart bursts, if only a little bit, with rage.

Sans belt

Forgetting belt was the worst thing to happen today
Sans belt, there’s no marking off the upper from the lower. No tucking, no denying of the sloppy shirttails. Sans belt, you can’t lock all that in.
Slovenly, undermade, unkempt. Never a composed, definitive self. What is torso sans belt, even? What’s being defined, separated? You know where you begin and end; where do you middle?

With belt, though, there are the midsweats, the waistline sweats, greasing up the tummy rolls you’ve got going on there. You’ve got them going on. At least two.
But it’s the sweat of creating Your Self of the day. You lock that buckle into place — hole 2, maybe 2 if you’re having a good week, if you’ve been doing your crunches — you stand, and there’s torso.

Always remember belt.

Quick ‘Atlanta’ Post

I’ve been thinking about the jail waiting-room scene in episode two of Donald Glover’s Atlanta. There’s a lot at work here, from the worn, uncomfortable-looking chairs, the dim light, the scrape of the chairs, the coughing. You can smell the burnt coffee, urine, the BO, the unceasing, mundane theatrics of law and order at work. Earn, Glover’s indolent-with-a-heart-of gold wants to sleep; he just wants to be processed, jailed, and bailed, but perchance to sleep for God’s sake. It’s the banality of fatigue under low-level duress, constantly threatening to erupt into life-ruining cataclysm that takes things from the level of simple Sartrian numbitude into something sinister and scary. Indeed, there’s lots of boring nothing at work, a nothing pregnant with menace that never quite arrives, until something suddenly and grossly does happen (no spoilers, because toilet water). Something that robs everyone of their dignity, as it breaks the loose bonds of fraternity that’d settled in.

Oftentimes in extended scenes and sequences like this, we’re primed to look for the object of menace, or the signifier of dramatic tension that’s about to raise the stakes. On several occasions in this sequence, it seems like that menace is approaching. It never quite does. Glover’s broader objective here seems to me to show the normalization of this bureaucracy, without forcing an opinion or judgment. It is what it is.

There’s a lumpen, slow-moving quality to the pacing and emotional trajectory of each exchange. Earn snuggles confidently and desperately with Van, Paper Boi lumbers down a street, weighted, awed, a little scared, and intrigued by who his world thinks he is or wants him to be. This writing really cares about contemplation; these characters worry about who they are, and who their world thinks they are.

None of this seems to foreclose a feeling of dramatic completeness, however. Perhaps because it’s more important to Glover, a comedian, to punctuate every sequence with humor. I don’t know that that’s exactly right, because I don’t know that I’ve quite figured out the rhythms of this show. And I’m so, so fine with that.

What brown people heard

The morning after Khizr Khan delivered his stirring speech at the Democratic National Convention, he surely knew what was to come. He had, after all, managed to both honor his fallen son while rebuking Donald Trump, the World’s Most Perpetually Uninteresting, Aggrieved Man. The notion that a man—a Muslim, of all sorts—had the gall to call him out, to shame him, before all the world, was an unimaginable offense.

Trump responded in kind. In an interview with George Stephanopoulos over the weekend, Trump insinuated that Khan’s wife, Ghazala, who stood silently by her husband’s side during his bracing speech, “wasn’t allowed to have anything to say.” Then he equated his own sacrifices as a businessman to the Khans’s. Mrs. Khan, in response, wrote an op-ed for the Washington Post, in which she defended her choice not to speak—America, she  asserted, felt her pain—and reminded readers that Trump “doesn’t know what the word sacrifice means.” Trump has continued to insist that the story “is not about Mr. Khan…but rather RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORISM and the U.S.”

There’s another set of optics to consider here: is this—both Khan’s DNC speech and the follow-up interviews and responses to Trump in recent days—the first time that many Americans have ever heard a brown man talk, at length, about patriotism, war, and sacrifice? (More churlishly, I wonder whether this marks the first time most Americans have ever listened to a brown man talk at any length, ever, about anything). For me—an Indian-American, not a Pakistani-American like the Khans—the sight of a still-grieving, middle-aged South Asian uncle and auntie, channeling their hopes, dreams, anguish, and rage, as they take the stage in one of the most nakedly revealing moment for brown people in U.S. history, was overwhelming.

In recent days, I’ve come to wonder whether Khan’s decision to move from the private sanctuary of grief to the most public forum conceivable was directed at their fellow South Asians just as much as it was at Trump and the Republicans—an urgent, at times uncomfortable call to the aunties and uncles of America to rethink their notion of sacrifice. The children of immigrants—people like the late Captain Khan—often hear about the lives unlived their parents gave up to come to the West, the pain of cultural and racial dislocation, the ominous uncertainty of an Otherness imposed, all for them. We’re used to bearing their burden, and feel obligated to do right by them.

What the Khans have done, I suggest, is radically re-define the foundations of the immigrant sacrifice. One can, and should, be deeply skeptical of the purpose of the war, particularly war circa 2004. But supporting it, taking part in it, remains one of the starkest ways of expressing a very muscular sort of patriotism. It’s not, in my experience, a sort of patriotism I’m used to seeing and hearing extolled by men like Khizr Khan. But hearing him speak last Thursday night, I heard him shattering the illusion that brown people can sit by idly in their comfortable suburban neighborhoods outside Houston, Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York, as if the world and its problems stopped being their concern once they made it to their McMansions. Nothing in this immigrant dream, even after that dream is realized, is impregnable, he seemed to say.

Trump, his instinct for self-preservation-via-tweet triggered, sees nothing wrong with attacking the Khans. Meanwhile, most right-thinking people—Democrat or Republican, hawk or dove—seem to have heard in Khan’s words a call for America to assert the best possible version of itself.


A messy note of gratitude

When I quit my first job at a semiconductor company, my boss gave me some advice: “Make sure, in your career, you really show that you want to be there,” where there is defined as “whatever your job is at the time.” Her point, in the end, was that I’d done a miserable job pretending I could get excited about editing technical manuals written by angry French engineers the rest of my life.

From day one at that job, I’d been applying like mad for out-of-reach gigs like “broadcast writer” at the AP. But as it turns out, a couple dozen columns and film reviews in the college paper don’t really get you in the door. Especially circa 2007-08, as the entire industry was in meltdown.

So I left Austin. My next “job” was a voluntary gig, helping a buddy with her research on domestic workers in northeast India. It was mind blowingly redirective. My life could be about a Something. I thought journalism could be that Something, so I wrote a lot, and published a little.

So, naturally, ignoring that impulse, I followed all that up with an internship at an NGO in DC. Loved the people; doubted the mission. And I began to wonder why I was wussing out on storytelling. I resolved to stay in DC and force my way into something journalistic.

What followed: Canvassing for the Dems via a pretty scummy grassroots campaign group. Processing early voting data for the Dems by night, interning at VOA’s Afghan station by day. Desk assistant at the PBS NewsHour. Freelance TV production work at Al Jazeera and elsewhere (like the AARP). Web and video production and reporting at National Journal. Then a nice long stretch as a fact checker, reporter, and various-etc. man at Mother Jones.

I was making *some* money. All of those places paid me, and did their best to take care of me, which is way more than you can say for a lot of shops. But in an egregiously expensive city, you never really feel like you’ve achieved any sort of financial escape velocity. I constantly felt on the verge of burning out and giving up — not because I didn’t think the work was worth it, but because there’s only so long you can feel like you’re just barely getting by, while transitioning into a respectable adulthood.

There was also the anger and gnawing doubt. The possibility that I wasn’t interested in the right stories and personalities. Didn’t know enough about the people and histories from which those stories and people emerged — that my sensibilities were poorly formed and flaccid. That I didn’t go to the right college, or grow up in the right part of the country. I wasn’t right for the business, and had nothing to show for it.

But after a more years of reporting and a thinktank stint, somehow I wound up back in The Game (I don’t intend to leave it voluntarily, ever). I see now that that time in the wilderness was about concretizing my values: learning about power, the abuse of power, the corrupting nature of power, and reporting out narratives (with varying degrees of success) that showed my growth as a thinker. I also had to remember that my cultural and intellectual DNA — that of an Assamese-American obsessed with film, television, theater, and literature — is core to who I am and the work I produce. Rejecting it, de-emphasizing it, does me no good. This process is messy. But it has been essential and legitimizing.

I know now that I wasn’t interested in the wrong things. Maybe those several years of relentless self-flagellation were what it took to refine my bad habits while somehow honing back in on what really mattered to me. Plenty of people helped me find my confidence again, and let me know my opinions and attitudes mattered. That’s something I intend to pay forward, wherever I go. Folks took a chance on me, and I’m forever grateful.

Coconut water before bed

I sit in a terminal of what is undoubtedly Houston’s Hobby Airport, circa 1994. There is faux wood paneling, and bright orange-style plastic seat cushions. This is how I know it is not the today of today.

Yet it is 2015. I know this because I am undoubtedly heading back to Washington. I know this, too, because a bar I across from me blasts a Fox News segment on the Republican presidential race. I believe it is The Shep. Gradually, I am made aware of the poor deluded yokels, the dreamers, the reactionary miracle weavers, guzzling Lone Star, and guffawing and gurgling along with the 10-second recaps of how each contender is faring.

When Trump’s 10-second sound bite plays, it is predictable in its content: xenophobic and baldly Islamophobic. The crowd cheers, and I am appalled but resigned.


It is morning, and a colleague I will call “B” presents his collection of glasses to me. Frames of all colors and shapes, some for the office, others for the club or the Vineyard, and lenses for all seasons: summers, mostly. Tinted lenses.

As I rifle through the frames,  I note the presence of an object wedged in my mouth, tucked just inside inside my teeth. It is one of B’s glasses. I appear to have attempted to consume a pair of his glasses.

In the world of the dream, this is regarded as peculiar, if not outright zany. B and I seem to understand that this did happen – that this is a thing that happens, in life – but not to recognize its pure zaniness. We don’t fully process the uncommonness of what I’ve chosen to do, and do not explore my motivations. It happened, and was not the worst thing that could have happened.


Ivan Drago – a voluble, truly gregarious Ivan Drago – and I sitting in the audience of a major sporting event. It may be a boxing bout, which would make sense. I am not surprised to see Drago sitting next to me, speaking casually. Not as if we are friends, but rather as if he is showing me his best side with ostentatious affectation.

It dawns on me that I am interviewing Ivan Drag. There is no sense at all of his intentions to “crush” me.

In the world of the dream, I ask myself whether Drago has already murdered Apollo Creed, faced off with Rocky Balboa, and single-handedly lost the Cold War for the Soviet Union. It feels as if this must be after. He is relaxed, freed of the tension that comes with serving as propaganda made-steroid-enhanced flesh. Why he isn’t back in training, or in a gulag? Back on “the program,” as they say? He seems able to breathe and emote without distraction.

As a reporter, I am embarrassed to acknowledge that, in the dream world, I seem not to have done my homework on where and when we are, and what seems to have shaped Drago’s life since that day in 1985. That would seem inherent to the process of the interview. I have failed.


A far-too-late post on Oscar Isaac and A Most Violent Year

On a crisp winter morning in 1981, a young Latino man jogs along the East River. Sporting a black knit cap and gray warm ups like a young Rocky Balboa, he moves, steely and determined, to the moody rhythms of Marvin Gaye’s “Inner City Blues.” He is alone amid the rusty detritus of a city seemingly left for grabs, its docks and warehouses abandoned and still, no longer bustling with the cranks, blasts, curses, and exhaust of industry. This is how we first come upon Abel Morales, aspiring heating oil magnate and protagonist of J.C. Chandor’s 2014 film, A Most Violent Year.

He is played by Oscar Isaac, who imbues Morales with an almost inhuman stillness, even as financial and legal nooses tighten around him in 1981 New York, threatening his ambitions, livelihood, and his family. This was a New York eaten from the inside by corruption and violence. For those seeking to build an empire, the city’s broken carcass was ripe for the picking — perhaps by the brown man, the working man, or even the brown man who was once a working man. Abel’s carefully groomed appearance and deliberate cadence suggest construction: of behaviors, of experiences, of a coherent identity. He uses few words, and those he uses he deploys to great effect, to make the listener internalize the dogma.

Morales wages what he deems a righteous war to secure his company’s long-term future in heating oil, just as Michael Corleone ruthlessly consolidated his family’s criminal empire in the 1950s and 60s. Both projected power through composure, and choose their words carefully. Many (most, really) have, in fact compared Isaac’s controlled performance to Pacino’s as Corleone. Homage is no doubt at work, an observation critics will likely continue to make as Isaac — by no means a traditional-looking or seeming star, whose odd rhythms, sensitive but neurotic intelligence, convey something pained and struggling for control — continues to complicate our sense of him as a performer: as a crusader for desegregated housing, as an X-Wing pilot, as a monomaniacal supermutant.

Abel comes from an unnamed Latin-American country. With one notable, obvious, crucial exception — a young truck driver hungry but tragically ill-equipped for Abel’s world– he is the only one of his particular tribe. From an interview with the New York Daily News:

[W]ith A Most Violent Year, it’s like the very first time that you see a Latin American man portrayed this way. He’s not a gangster; he’s nonviolent, he’s powerful, he’s quintessentially American, and he’s not a sidekick. We get to see a very un-clichéd look at the Latin American immigrant experience and really what the backbone of this country is. A lot of people like this come and work their way to the top, and this is somebody that buys into the American dream — and at the same time he’s very flawed. When you present someone not as a token for the entire community, I think that actually does more for the community than being some sort of poster child.

Yet, within Morales’ quintessential Americanness, there is the nagging sense of a camel-hair coated aspiring tycoon desperate to break in — to perform that quintessentialness.

There is something subtle and powerful Isaac instructs about the nature of performance in A Most Violent Year. In this scene, he explains performance. Breaking it down step by essential step, Morales wants, and needs his new salesmen to understand the script and to live it, the lessons and rituals that made Abel Morales into Abel Morales.

As he grows more desperate — for a massive infusion of cash to close a purchase for a fuel terminal that would profoundly improve his company’s fortunes — he somehow grows increasingly determined to win by the book, and only by the book. He won’t arm his delivery men even though they’re being carjacked by rogue gunmen, and he won’t cave under the pressure of a dogged attorney general bent on bringing him down for corruption, real or perceived.

His intense cerebralism seems to exist without spit and fire, the visceral stuff of empire-building. He has constructed a persona, and understands himself as the archetypal self-made man: reliant on no one, aiming to please and provide for one those closest to him. This is the story he’s written for himself. Abel’s stillness, his precision, is all part of a carefully calibrated performance. He is not of their tribes — the Teamsters, the Italian organized crime networks, the Hasid businessmen he’s trying to buy the terminal from.

The specifics of Abel’s story before the heating oil, before New York, before his family and marriage, seem to matter little for him. He is what he is here, today, the product of his choices and decisions as a businessman able and willing to create something of his own atop the detritus of collapse. It’s his American tale.

That exception is, of course, his tragic, blubbering foil: young delivery man Julian, who wants nothing more than to one day be Abel. Abel shows concern and genuine sympathy for Julian after he is violently held up in the inciting incident that drive the rest of the film. Abel, David Denby wrote, sees a younger version of himself in Julian. “If you’re a rising entrepreneur, you have to impress people, even a confused, impulsive young immigrant like Julian,” Denby wrote. “[T]he character is Chandor’s way of reminding us that most immigrants don’t wear camel hair,” he adds, drawing a parallel with the Corleone family code. But as he also points out, it is “the ways in which Abel differs from him that make the movie special.”

As shit luck sends Julian spiraling, Abel chooses to separate himself from him. He’s too weak, too stupid, too unwilling to take the occasional beating as part of the long game to glory. Something in Abel’s past perhaps shaved away any softness, reducing him to a hard, not unfeeling rock, but one one whose sympathies are hard-earned. For a man who so desperately wants to be seen by Abel, Abel has no sentiment to spare.