On Education & Flower-Drawing

Let's talk about why I will never send my children to school in India if I ever choose to work there (a possibility given the field I'm in and the direction I hope to take). But let's not address the usual issues one might find of concern - let's instead finally reveal the traumas of my time as a 1st grader at The Woodlands School in Patna, Bihar, in 1990.

Boy, does my family have stories about this one. It is one of the few times in my life where I was so inexplicably unreasonable and unable to adapt. I'm practically a chameleon and always have been - throw me anywhere and I'm pretty much able to adjust to things. In fact, I prefer that kind of existence. I like shifting - it suits my nature. The Woodlands School did not.

I was a real nerd even in kindergarten. I know everyone loves school at that age, but I REALLY loved it. I loved my friends, my teachers, my art projects, my picture-day outfits, my cafeteria, my locker, you name it. I didn't take issue with anything. The only real tragedy was that I was such a weakling, and was often absent due to sickness. School inspired me to become a story book writer/illustrator when I grew up. School was safe and school was home.

When the family moved to India for a year for my father's sabbatical, my adventurous side got the best of me. I was a precocious child. I knew that an Indian school was not going to be the same as my perfect, privileged little kingdom of public education on Long Island, but the thought of moving away for a year to another country gave me this awesome prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Myself and my younger sister (the poor thing had only experienced nursery school so far and didn't know any better) were placed in a simple public school for less than 1 year. I was in the first "standard" (grade), and she in whatever comes before that. I don't know what went through our young minds at that time, but I do remember every detail vividly once it all began.

I could deal with the benches and rows of little brown children in starched white shirts, pleated red skirts/shorts, and patent-leather shoes. I could deal with calling the teacher "Ma'am" or "Miss." I didn't mind that there was no cafeteria and that I didn't know the principal. I got used to sitting in place and watching a rotation of subject teachers come and go instead of moving around ourselves. I even learned to love the cool pencil boxes and especially sharp, steel sharpeners.

What I didn't understand:
- Expecting to know the times table up until 12 when I could barely add
- Why we were given coloring books to color as "art" instead of being given time to create our own
- Where we were supposed to eat lunch

Most of all, I didn't understand the people and I was spoiled by the after-school special that was my social scene back home. In New York, when the new kid from Israel, Ofair, had first arrived, he was properly introduced to the class and we took turns introducing ourselves. Sure, Ofair was a little odd but we were expected to be nice to him and make him feel a part of the class. In turn, Ofair offered to us his harmless and slightly whimsical personality.

In India, I was met by blank stares and giggles from boys who thought my nails were too long. The teachers made no effort to integrate me into the class. Maybe it was because I was Indian, too. But while I didn't expect anyone to make me feel "special" like American teachers did, I certainly didn't expect them to make me fit into the mold of this bland, sad group of repressed 1st graders. While the atmosphere wasn't warm or uninviting, it wasn't exactly welcoming either. I didn't know how to fit in and what to offer.

Every morning for what seemed like an eternity, I had a mental breakdown. I awoke with tears in my eyes and refused to go to school. I took forever in the bathroom, held onto doorways, tried to sweet-talk my driver into turning back home, and could not choke up any words when necessary once there. After some time, my parents, baffled by this sudden change in attitude towards school, finally pulled me out and got me a tutor.

Yeah, so I was an Indian-school-first-standard drop-out. Never again. I know there were good schools in India (maybe not Patna though...) back then, and there are more now. My niece attends a very modern, somewhat new-age, earthy private school in New Delhi but that's just not me.

American education supposedly sucks, but I was lucky to have attended one of the best school districts in the country. Nothing comes close to some of the experiences you have as a regular ol' public school kid here - to the diversity you take for granted, to the individuality that is encouraged, to the appreciation of childhood, to the early dreams and goals we are told we can achieve. Nowhere could I stand before an easel, palette and brush in one hand and pages of a handwritten plot in the other, at the age of 6 so confidently and envision myself as the next great best-selling story book author/illustrator. Nowhere else could I have such a fluid intellectual curiosity and profound enthusiasm for education. It almost makes me cry how much I can appreciate my schooling with so few regrets.

Some cousins of mine attend a posh private school in India. When they moved back to India from, of all places, Minnesota, the younger one expressed frustration with her new school. She told me that they were asked to draw flowers in her art class. When she drew one, her teacher "corrected" her design. Luckily, my cousin is a spunky one and asked why she couldn't draw any kind of flower since there are so many kinds. Her question apparently went unanswered and she came to me upset by the apparent lack of democracy in flower-drawing.

I know this is not representative of all Indian schools, and possibly not many at all these days. I also remind myself constantly how priviliged I was such at such a tender age, and that few people are lucky enough to have had the same experiences. I just hope to give my own kids tablets of blank pages to draw in and construct some dreams. And that will be right here, where I was able to do so.

How Long I've Been A Democrat

If it appears to you that I am very liberal and a staunch Democrat, that's okay with me. It occurred to me last night that I can recall my very first reaction to a presidential election, and thus, how long I may have been one. It dates back to - kindergarten.

I feel compelled to address this because by some telepathic coincidence, this morning's Today show featured a segment on educating young children about the election and politics. I was proud to see that 20 years ago, Mrs. Cohen, my dear kindergarten teacher, was way ahead of the game.

Back in 1988, Mrs. Cohen requested that we bring in a picture of our presidential pick. I actually thought long and hard about this, but realized that my developing brain was powerless in understanding what issues were at hand and on what basis such a decision could be considered. I looked through newspapers but since I couldn't understand most of the words, I focused on the pictures.

To my young little eyes, the answer lay in Michael Dukakis. He was young and fresh-faced compared to Bush, and was sort of handsome. Plus, I liked the sound of Dukakis. I thought it was different and profound, while Bush invoked canned bean commercials.

The next day, I marched up to the dry-erase board and sticky-tacked my image of Dukakis in the appropriate column. Sound choice or not, I had unknowingly declared my party affiliation for years to come (and crushingly chose the loser of the election).

In honor of my superficial baby steps as a U.S. Citizen, here is an equally superficial (but powerful) ode to Mr. Obama - man, that guy knows how to take a picture. If I were kindergartner right now, these would seal the deal for me.

Pictures: © Callie Shell / Aurora for Time & The Huffington Post

M.O.B. Mentality - My Managerial & Organizational Behavior

At some point this morning, I realized I was staring at the screen and not moving. Just staring. Not registering anything before my eyes. Hypnotized by the bright glare of the screen and coasting along into nothingness.

I should add that the heat was turned off on our floor this morning due to construction. I shivered in place and recoiled into myself to conserve energy.

I won't lie and say and that I don't lapse into such a state of unproductivity occasionally. That fact, combined with my Managerial & Organizational Behavior (M.O.B) course, has forced me to adopt a M.O.B mentality and consider the following:

What kind of worker am I? What work environments/conditions do I thrive in? Am I a better manager or leader?

Is anyone paying attention to whether or not I turn into one? Am I?

Am I potentially an accidental success? Will someone randomly pull out the rug from under me and leave me wondering where I went wrong?

Is there any room for this kind of deep introspection in an academic, health/medical research environment that rests entirely on the whims of the National Institutes of Health?

I've come to consider myself to be a worker bee with a cavalier streak that no one could do anything about if they even noticed it.

I work because I like to work. I chose to work in this field because I want to make a contribution to public health and global justice. I work because I'm comfortable with a certain kind of lifestyle. But I also work because a job is a job, and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop viewing "work" as such and feel engaged in a career.

Why, you may ask. If you tally my blog hours, you might notice that I'm just a tad, a tad bit lonely during the workday. I work largely by myself on a research study whose Principal Investigator thankfully respects individual work styles and is insanely busy. This is a wonderful thing - but also a bit of solitary experience. After much thought, it struck me how much of my work in public health and non-profit sector has been this way.

How this will affect me professionally, I don't know. But it does make me wonder about the things I may have missed out on. That said, I can't say I regret having the opportunity to fulfill work responsibilities, read The Huffington Post & New York Times everyday, do homework during lunch, visit the drugstore in the afternoon (if necessary that is...), leave early for class, and get to work in 10 minutes the next morning.

It's likely that it won't, unless someone directly inquires about my organizational behavior and cavalier worker bee ways. Until then, I've taken it upon myself to focus on a new personal evolution, one with concrete goals and an enthusiasm it's taken me a long while to develop.

Thanks, Professor.

A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man, Part Deux

Friend who helped me formulate A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man has further defined what speciman of a man may be right for me.

Apparently, what I need is a liberal, studious, half-Jewish, half-black man from NY who likes Bollywood movies.

Start looking.

Here, Vibes

Background: Years and months and days enduring the approach of an age (much too early by some standards) that apparently demands love and marriage and such.

Current Status: No love or marriage or such.

Scene: Crisp autumn evening in an NYC cab with 2 dear loved ones, both female relatives. On our way to dinner.

Conversation: Nothing and everything.

The Plot Thickens When: In pure "jest," I receive a "You bloody idiot - what are you doing with your life? You need to send some good vibes" from one female relative.

Vibes.

In addition to hopefully building a career and pursuing higher education, I'm apparently supposed to be worried about said vibes. Apparently, I don't have them. Apparently, they are what I should be emitting from my radiant self to attract any number of good Y-chromosomes my way. Apparently, it is my fault that I am not.

Since no clear definitions or plan of actions were offered, I'll literally take this to mean that I should hike up my skirt, pull down my shirt, and perform a mating dance.

Here, vibes.

A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man

Of late, I've been asked what I am looking for in a boy/guy/man/boyfriend/husband/life partner. I have no idea what this question is supposed to mean. It makes as little sense to me as asking what kind of food I like and what kind of food I hope to eat in the future - hopefully, good, healthy, yummy food? I don't care what it really is, as long it's satisfying and enjoyable? No mold? Good-looking enough but doesn't have to be primped, primed, and garnished? Sigh. I figure when you meet someone you can be with for however long it is meant to be, you'll know.

I was wrong. After much thought and consideration, my friend and I have decided that the most suitable boy/ideal man would be a combination of John Stewart, Barack Obama (don't groan), and Stephen Colbert.

Stewart is funny, quirky, and handsome. Obama is presidential, quirky (I think), and handsome.

And Colbert. Well, Colbert is funny, quirky, can fake being presidential, handsome, can breakdance with Korean pop stars, loves Amitabh Bachchan, and possesses those perfect in-between looks and carriage that could pass for a number of different ethnicities, making him an excellent non-Indian Indian candidate.

I heart Stewart/Obama/Colbert. Sorry to throw the Obama in there - I know it might be inappropriate and cheesy. But he really does have a killer smile, and may be president. It's a no-brainer. There are many others I could add to this list but since I already sound 15, I'd rather not risk sounding 13.

Why I Haven't Been Blogging & My Affair With The Huffington Post

I have been quiet for a while now, and for no good reason. Possible explanations included being generally busy with my fascinating public health coursework (it truly is) and being unable to find my way through a mental fog of disconnected thoughts.

And then it hit me. The culprit of my silence has been none other a lethal combination of The Huffington Post and You Tube. Yep, you've been deprived of my ramblings because I found something more amusing than myself.

The Huffington Post - not the best source of the latest, most objective news some might say. Frankly, I don't care. That website is addictive, especially for bloggers like me who put together lists of the funny moments this election circus has to offer and email their friends and family approximately 10 related articles per day.

Nevermind that the website is completely and utterly disorganized. There are articles, opinions, videos, news feeds, pictures, and audio clips thrown around that page in the most attractive, haphazard arrangement imaginable, and I can't get enough of it. Its not enough to catch every SNL, Letterman, and Daily Show moment possible then night before - I have to read up on the aftermath the next morning.

So my coworker and I comb through Huffington and You Tube like our lives depend on it. I'm starting to think that rambling to myself was better - at least it is somewhat engaging. All this election business often makes my jaw drop and stare at the computer screen with eyes glazed over, although I do get a million and one laughs out of it between 9 am and 5 pm everyday, guaranteed. I am not alone. My cousin refers to it as "my cocaine."

Trying to shake myself out of it. Hear from me soon.