let’s commit model minority suicide.
ur wery cute
  1. me: "white girls be like, 'omg i LOVE how sweet my boyfriend is to you, it's so cute!'"
  2. rajul: "yeah and you're like, 'umm you shouldn't.'"
  3. ha.

i really hate that i need to post a note saying what i’m about to say. but here i go. this blog, and other writing i do, is not an invitation to ask me out. particularly when your offer comes in the form of something along the lines of “i hear you date black guys. sweet. i love me some indian women. care to meet up?” my writing about race and relationships does not mean, in any way whatsoever, that i want to go out with you because of the color of your skin. we don’t know each other. also, not sure why this needs to be elaborated on again, but i don’t “date black guys” as a category, exclusively or otherwise. nor do i not date any other group of men. so similarly, to those who write me and want to prove me wrong when i’ve criticized the bad behavior, stereotypical or not, of men of my own ethnic and cultural background, you get the same response. i do not want to meet you. 

if it’s unclear why these messages are offensive, you need to be educating yourself with more than just this blog. 

to everyone else, thanks for reading, leaving thoughtful comments, and sending supportive emails. much love <3

i’m trying my hand at a style of writing i’ve done but never really published, and here is an excerpt! the full text of “dusk at briars corner”  will be in du-kool's march issue, a special tribute to international women’s day. and this is a great exercise for the alleged book i’m working on yikes.

“Oh my god do you shave your toes?” Carlo said loudly.

He was standing in the pool, immersed to his nipples, which appeared squished or deflated or something. I was sitting on the edge, my knees to my chest, feet skimming the surface of the water, the texture of the concrete imprinting itself onto my ass. An armor of goose bumps had sprouted on my legs, but I suddenly burned with embarrassment.

“Allison does too!” I blurted out, and immediately felt shame for such a ridiculous response. It was true, but why did I throw her under the bus? What the fuck was my problem? In truth though, she somehow did have the ability to neutralize something as weird as toe hair removal. Or toe hair, period. And I knew that. Otherwise it was just another thing that set me apart from them.

“That’s kinda gross,” Carlo said, already looking elsewhere and beginning to wade away. But the other boys were still focused on me, their chiseled faces and tanned, muscular torsos turned in my direction. No one proceeded to question Allison about her toe-grooming habits. I said nothing. Finally they went back to quoting inane movie lines and asking Caitlyn and Jessica to take turns saying “lick me” in the most seductive voice they could muster.

I loathed myself for my toe hair and my pathetic retort. I lacked the sense to instead loathe the normalcy of the constant picking apart to which we were subjected. And the injustice that, years after my sister had taught me to wax my upper lip and blast my thick, unkempt mane into something sleek and subdued so that my friends’ manicured mothers wouldn’t complain about long wiry strands littering their immaculate beige floors after I had been over, big sloppy creatures like Carlo could keep finding things that were wrong. I wanted to make more of me disappear so I could be less invisible.


foreign aid and philanthropy 

People who are privileged are also the ones who are most hopeless, and they most easily decide that there is no hope… But the point is that the alternative and the hope is not going to come from the people who design the system and who profit from the system in the first place. It is going to come from the people who’ve been left out of it.