I wonder, how come there are people in the world that don’t wake up with peanut butter cup wrappers next to the pillow, too cumbersome to have been moved last night??
I wonder, how do people do hard things? The three big dishes crusting in the sink, unloading the car after camping, folding laundry. Submitting reimbursement checks. Are these really easy for some people? Why do they feel so hard to me?
Why is it that people seem to work so much harder than I? Is it really a mental disease or could it be that they are actually are better, and that if I just tried harder, I’d be able to work as hard?
Why don’t I don’t feel this way when I wake up — am I simply too attached to getting to drink my nice coffee in my nice coffee machine in my nice house to wonder too hard at how silly it is that I sit at home all day? Do I like typing out too many “justs.” and feeling important? Or am I actually healing? Is it bad that the better I get, the less I wonder, the more I give my time to maintaining systems I don’t believe should exist?
I wonder, are there people that don’t walk to the park at night to dance to Ecuadorian trance, even once a year? To whom that doesn’t even sound remotely desirable? Is it just because I am depressed? Or I’m creative? Or I’m unique? Or I’m privileged? Or because I got COVID and the vax microchips are misfiring in response to the virus? Or I’m crazy? I mean, I’m not crazy. A hippie? Or totally normal and brainwashed to think this is wild to do?
A question for the people that write the books and movies about people that are on the fringe: do we really exist in the real world? (I struggle even to include myself in that royal we because of the YouTube commenters that squat in my frontal lobe. “Honey, you’re not on the margin if you make a tech salary and live in Culver City, okayyy?”)
Periodically, I wonder, have I gotten worse?? Like, how did I ever have the audacity, the personal fortitude to date? To go to that same park over and over and be like “I”m pretty fucking great. Here I am in leggings.”
Will it get less tiring? To tell myself every minute, every hour, every micro-millisecond of emotional reaction that pulses from brain to heart to shoulders, that no no, it’s actually cool, you are actually good, I swear. No you’re good, you’re good! People like you! For a reason! But people. Are people crutches? Do they just mask the deluge? Why is it that with people, it’s easier — to walk and laugh and play?
Is this depression? Plain crazy? Is it just life?
And yet I am inspired, by unlikely things. Today, by a profile of Jennifer Lawrence. By The Alpinist, though I’ll never free solo anything. By the idea of spending the day in the park, or taking myself on a hike. By actually doing it. By a listicle I write about myself, and the tidbits of life I’ve picked up in my 26 years: bits of languages and bits of chord progressions and bits of people. I can sway to Yebba, repeatedly, sing along. I can laugh at the man in the purple blazer who got a black car to come to Mommy & Me classes at the park. I can laugh at the driver who tries to pick me up and backs away when I say I have COVID. I can smile at the sun on the grass. I can then immediately feel guilty at how easy my life is. Will it end? Will it get easier? Has it already? Will I be ok? Am I already?
sometimes I wake up and there is a feeling of wrongness twisted into my chest, and no amount of routine (moisturizer, music, coffee) can un-twist the tight strands.
what I wish for is kind, loving hands to rest warm there, reminding me that those twists are old, gnarled but fraying, not as hardened as they feel. that they live in new habitat that requires they adapt, that the rest of my chest is green pasture for new things to bloom. that those old shriveled strands are slowly wasting, waiting for the soil of my insides to swallow them, to wake new from them.
what i struggle to believe, that these hands of turnover can be my own. i look around and watch others; they don’t seem to rely on their own hands. but i don’t see their twists, what soil they need. i can only see my own, and lay a hand there, today.
In the past year, I have been saying the phrase “white people” more. Saying it is sour skittles — my tongue tingles uncomfortably and it’s probably bad for my insides in some distant, unimaginable way. I keep doing it.
I think I’ve been saying white people more because I am realizing I am allowed to say it. Like buying sour skittles as an “adult” at the grocery store — because I can.
Making jokes about whiteness now feels like a delayed come-back,
One I’ve slept on for two and a half decades of feeling hairy and chubby (in an unwanted way), too quiet, too loud. It’s a reaction to feeling like my clothes and posture at every workplace were wrong. Making a white people joke now is a belated fuck-you-back to the table of blonde girls in sixth grade who had 10 pairs of jeans to my one and talked loudly about bat mitzvahs and quietly that I wasn’t invited. To the general existence of Abercrombie and Fitch, which I couldn’t fit or afford. It’s a delayed retort to arguing with an ex about whether cultural appropriation really is that bad, when I wasn’t sure why and definitely couldn’t make the point effectively, but I just knew it felt really bad.
So I’ve been saying white people. To prepare myself for the comment on my English, or the defensive monologue on why it’s actually not anyone’s fault that my team at work is white. To retroactively laugh at the sandwich (turkey, wheat, pepper jack, butter, ziploc, nothing else) I ate as a middle schooler to meet the standard for brown paper bag lunch, and I now realize is just as bland and dry as my mother always said. To be able to sit down in my not-that-hairy, not-that-chubby body (nor should it matter, but I’m a flawed human in this world) and have a real opinion about other things — my work, or the world, the news, and that one trauma book everyone is reading.
And I know. I know that saying white people isn’t good trouble — a rain cloud of doubt won’t suddenly appear over Melanie-the-sixth-grade bully’s head, people won’t suddenly atone for their microaggressions.
But it still feels good to do it. It’s retro-actively standing up for myself, and for others. Once silent in the face of racism, if we all make enough white people jokes, will people find themselves in a world where they feel real shame as a result? I’ve learned the tit for tat accountability of our world and I am tatting really hard.
I say white people as though it helps me remember whiteness. As if I don’t say it, I’ll slip back into an experience of the world that just felt othered, off, wrong.
That can’t really be it, can it?
I have friends that I couldn’t live without that also happen to be white, people I show my softest and weirdest and wonderful-est bits. I met many (but not all) of them before I understood whiteness as a concept, before I recognized it as a force and a story in the world that has a history and ability to harm. I don’t hold back with them — I conveniently forget their whiteness unless forced to remember.
And to be fair, I’ve been saying brown people more too.
Or south asian, or Indian depending on the flavor of the day. Recently, since prompted by a friend, if I’m describing my cultural experience to someone that is not South Asian, I acknowledge my caste (Brahmin), and explain (the WASPs of India).
And I am almost white, if not in skin tone like much of my family, then my position in society — descended from decades of relative stability, generations of higher education, and a general expectation of success by society.
Knowing whiteness, knowing brownness, categorical slots of identity feels like a cardboard diorama way to experience the world. I feel proactively wary of some people, proactively warm towards others, and I’m sometimes right, but other times, given enough time, wrong.
It’s undeniable that when we share experiences, we have the potential to share closeness. Those experiences can be racial, cultural, the apartment complex we grew up in, the lack or presence of health insurance, whether we grew up listening to the Mangeshkar sisters or Aretha or the Rolling Stones. But closeness is not just borne of our shared categories — it’s borne of the ability to be the soft inner parts of ourselves with others.
When I say white in spite, I think it’s borne of a long simmering anger,
Of being denied that ability for closeness for a long time, because the world I thought I had to live in did not hold my image with value — my body, my ways, my songs and knowledge felt wrong.
That is no longer my truth. In part it’s because I know whiteness. And in part it’s because of my stable, beautiful, affordable (to me) housing, meaningful job, good therapy, my relationships. But all of those things feel like they came (in part) because I know whiteness. Because I chose my people, therapist, job, and housing with an eye on how they might include me.
Our world denies so many people closeness and vibrancy for so many reasons, outside of race. Am I contributing to that, by setting my dating app settings to exclude whiteness, explicitly choosing to climb with brown girls, listening to Melanie Faye instead of Tom Misch when I want melodic guitar?
Our world denies so many people closeness and vibrancy because of race. Am I complicit, if I don’t keep noting whiteness, noting and talking about relative privilege?
Am I missing the point entirely?
p.s. This essay feels like one that can never be completed. Inherent in writing something down, are all the things that I could not find a way to write down. If it’s not here, it could be because I chose not to acknowledge it, or it could be because I just didn’t think about it. I’ve been known to be wrong before.
p.p.s. I wondered if it was unnecessary, or even overly angry of me to write this. And then someone told my friend last weekend that they were making white cast sunscreen about race when it didn’t need to be. And asked us how we expected to not be made fun of for our brownness if we brought chutney to the group. And I remembered whiteness, incredulously, viscerally, angrily. At least it made me publish this essay.
today is october 23 and maika and I drove for 33 hours from california to alabama to visit julia and today we are sitting
heaven is a Yukon parked outside with Alabama plates and a goose and her babies sitting at the right rear wheel it is a cloudy blue sky on a balmy late October afternoon & this old striped couch it is curly typing hair in front, celebrating Breonna Taylor’s legacy above, and a crunchy figure drawing hanging below it is soft skin to drop tears on and green grass to gaze at
heaven is meandering aimlessly from room to room muttering ‘i love that for me’ and the books that make up a life: Reading Lolita in Tehran, The Craft of Research, Pete Souza’s Obama and DBT Skills Training Manual
heaven is casual TRX and jumping around cats and a plant filled laundry room it is wondering what to say and knowing exactly what to say and wrapping paper stacked in a corner waiting patiently for Christmas
heaven is a quiet house, three purposeful rooms filled with purposeless activity, 3 people moving forward, backward, divergent and together
heaven is the gift of sitting still it is living & working, working & living and striped grey socks for each chair foot and quietly talking to old demons inside and standing up and sitting down to text everyone back and the purring question of a spotted nose poking wetly into a foot
heaven is co-existing in silence and choosing kin, life, food, hours and space it is french vanilla french press and sharing the breakfast dishes and the small gift of caramel biscotti and chocolate-forward trail mix and the woes of extra plastic packaging
this is heaven in each silent moment that passes the love of a life shared by chance and choice yesterday and today and tomorrow
News: To avoid / receive filtered through the voices of loved ones. 10% useful information and 90% the NYTimes telling us how to make our work from home set up more ergonomic and think-pieces on the advent of zoom dating in the post-covid-world. (Shut up NYTimes). Also, a source of anxiety. Also, click-bait.
Loneliness: That feeling of loss of not having experienced any human touch for more than 30 days, except for the swipe of a hand of the guy at Tsujita as he handed me my bag of takeout tsukumen. The knowledge that this is not new, it will not get old, it will pass, and it settles like soup, like dark chocolate, like red wine in the belly.
Night: The sense that most others are asleep, that I may free from internal expectation, that I may be quiet, exist, be.
Solitude: Sitting at my dining table writing at 9:30 pm on Saturday with a slight headache from canned rosé, feeling manic, feeling like going for a 6 mile run, eating quickly because I can’t eat slowly. The experience of having spent $160 dollars at Vons (of all fucking places) and having spent 30 minutes looking for nutritional yeast (they didn’t have it).
Finding myself in a rare moment of enjoying my own company, the story of a woman sitting quietly and typing furiously.
Wondering, is there any part of being alone that isn’t a montage of someone I watched in a television show? Like I’m finally Rory Gilmore caught up in love and loneliness but instead of New York I’m in Mar Vista and brown, and add eyebrow ring, add self-doubt, add a lot of things that aren’t very Rory Gilmore.
Understanding that it takes emptying out of what one wants and needs, that it takes deep sad, to make way for calm. That mucus and sobs and a dirty purple handkerchief give way to a soothing midnight walk and the sound of my own breath and the swish of a moderately old but still good jacket.
The change and growth between four weeks, in my head and heart and belly.
Cooking: Understanding the true cost of unpaid labor of women for the history of time. A thing to revel in, to tire of. Finally having the confidence and wherewithal to ‘throw together’ an unplanned Indian meal. A medium for discovering the sense of belonging that comes from wandering the aisles of Samosa House, feeling a deep deep sense of gratitude to be of someplace, to have language and access to that place, to have gotten to live there. Making fat dinners each night. The subject of the daily 3:30pm chat with my roommates, as we tire of staring at screens and look forward to a source of consistent physical joy.
Grocery shopping: Wandering pseudo-aimlessly through Vons aisles in search of fancy crap that an almost-tech salary can afford (dates, almond milk, organic coconut milk ice cream). A great opportunity to talk to a friend and exclaim loudly about her or my or both’s loss of relationships while pacing in front of the produce, looking for fresh basil, scaring the little boy dressed like an Asian woman in his plastic face shield. Chattering with the woman at check out, feeling warm at the connection of her calling me ‘mamita’ and our shared love for Hot Cheetos (which I was buying).
Fishing: Unabashedly asking my boyfriend for compliments / reasons he misses me in the face of the unknowing stretch of space between countries / stretch of time between now and when I may see him again. Being rewarded with romantic memories of stealing his breakfast eggs, and taking a shit while he showers.
Zoom fatigue: The sense that I cannot talk about how strange this all is one more time, but then feeling like I should / could / can / will.
Frozen cookie dough: One dimensional sweetness, also known as emotional eating.
Friendship: Learning to blubber on camera in front of people who I do not want to romance, but instead want to share life experiences with. Sharing laughter / sweat / movies / gripes about work / everything. Mediated by two dimensions. Beautiful.
Google: A crutch for not seeking out professional care for my mind. A place to type in worries and fears and read disparaging and diminutive articles, written for the purpose of optimizing in the surveillance data economy, but not to soothe.
Also, substitute for knowing how to make rasam, kerala-esque fish curry, etc. etc. etc.
Bluetooth headphones: Enabler of bathroom breaks / snack-grabs during meetings, enabler of surreptitious dancing in my bedroom unencumbered by a cord.
Good posture: Elusive. May be found in YouTubes of physical therapists, or strong trap muscles, or possibly in stacking my laptop on top of French textbook, Cards against Humanity, history book I’m not finishing. Another dimension by which to question myself.
Climbing endurance: Lost.
Trying: Each day, all days.
The self: The only consistent company, the center of the universe, the place where I’d rather not be some days, the place I wish I could think beyond, the minute, unimportant, the present.
Two weeks ago, I left India behind as my home after 2 years, 8 months and 2 weeks. I am fundamentally more full of love, life, and climbing memes than when I last lived in the US. I miss my life there physically, achingly. I left because it was so beautiful, I left because I was comfortable, but not growing. I have since learned the meaning of the words “be careful what you wish for.”
There are a million ways to segment the time, make sense of the memories.
The beds I slept in.
(The mattress on the ground in Hankar Valley, with the warm blankets that proved we needn’t have carried any sleeping bags. The clean comfort of white sheets in Hotel Rajsangam International for dead sleeps after long hot climbing days. The first Diamond District bed that I adorned with crisp green sheets, that needed an extendable mosquito net. The last Diamond District bed, king size enough to seat 5 women decompressing from cleaning a cockroach filled kitchen, for late night chatter.)
The mistakes.
(Lying. Sequestering myself. Paralyzing indecision. Forgetting to call back, forgetting to text back, forgetting to expense that receipt on time, forgetting a birthday. Putting off calling because it stresses me out. Putting off calling because I worry. Forgetting to follow up. Not following up because it stresses me out. Not locking my carabiners on a late evening rappel. Leaning on others to solve my problems.)
The windows I looked through when I woke up in the morning.
(Green and feathered behind a black grille. Filtered sunlight through morning haze. An expansive balcony overlooking a resort pool, palm trees, hawks circling below me.)
The gatherings.
(The terrace party where everyone came and everyone cried, and we sang happy birthday and danced garba with an old woman who was angry but maybe just lonely. The women’s dinner and ensuing slumber party. The house party when I unintentionally took a picture of a stranger as he exited the bathroom, as he interrupted the reunion selfie. Friendsgiving with corn chili, pasta bake, pecan pie and an Indian:American ratio that matched history. The Thursday networking dinner turned wild evening where Ryan got into Y Combinator late into the night and we ate olives to celebrate. The Goa retreat where I drank beer to calm my unsettled stomach, and make space for addicting paneer pakodas by the best designer-chef. The Badami trip that I thought was a Hampi trip, so I clapped everyone awake at 6 am. The other 9 Badami trips. The hungover lunches at Airlines hotel.)
The climbing projects and the obsession.
(Dreaming about Don’t Touch 3 nights consecutively. Using the tree at the top on Top Tree, but still feeling proud of myself. Not even coming close on Sloper, despite 5 sessions, a last minute additional trip, 5 huge falls at the top clip. Making peace.)
The hurt I gave others, the hurt others gave.
(Never being enough in the ways that are needed. Trying and failing and trying and failing. Harsh words. Leaving.)
The men and women I have loved.
(The ones that inspire me to push harder. The ones that treat everyone like they are worth knowing, worth wondering about, worth time. The one that is kind and slow and soft. The one that taught me how to be a friend. The one that makes me worry about the end of the world, and not being nearby during it. The steadfast. The one that teaches joy, routine, lightness of being. The one that exemplifies quiet morality, quiet strength. The joyous, the joking, the quiet, the wondrous, the wiggly-kneed.)
The tears.
(Crying at goodbye. Crying in the car sitting between friends, between family. Crying after orgasm. Crying on the plane, the local train, the auto, the backseat of the Uber.)
The meals.
(Jowar roti, moong usal, and endless requests for more tuppa at the blue Kanavali next to the bus stand in Badami. The life changing thali on a spice farm in Goa. Eating my weight in butter garlic crab, when returning to Mumbai as a tourist. Watching my brother giggle at Bombay Canteen fanciness, and his eyes light up over desi tacos. Galette Bretonne, paired with Hampi wine and existential questions for a quiet night at home. Racing to beat the crowd at the rice uncle, lapping up soupy egg curry and rice with aching and burning granite-raw Hampi fingers.)
The sounds after pressing the snooze button.
(Jana-gana-mana in tinny patriotic 7 am voices ringing through wet Bombay air. Screams of the injustices of recreational soccer behind hazy Bangalore sunsets.
The nature of my anxieties
(Where do I go this Saturday afternoon? Who do I even know in this city? Why am I here? Where do I climb on Saturday? Who do I invite, will they get along? Why do I climb at all? Why can’t I make this move? Am I being too much for her? Am I doing enough for her? Does he have feelings for her? What if I can’t? What if I don’t want to? How can I?)
The ways of dispelling indecision.
(Call Liam. Write it down. Go on Instagram. Text Sonia. Make a spreadsheet. Text Aditi. Add weights to the spreadsheet, and calculate averages.)
The wastes of time
Instagram. Instagram, instagram. Watching youtube videos of hip hop dancing, watching the documentary about demi lovato’s addiction recovery. Instagram. Music videos. Instagram. Learning to step away. Fallling back in.
The body products.
(Lush hair custard that smells like eggs and vanilla. Palmers cocoa butter in large plastic tubs. Jasmine roll-on perfume. Nivea roll-on deodorant. Tea tree oil for constantly blooming acne.)
The weekend outfits.
(Black and white flowered skirt. Orange and black dress that looks like a curtain. The one black tank top worn for climbing, for work, for a party, for a night in, for painting, for Slacklining, for confidence.)
The maids.
(Deepa tai, fighting the Virar local for 2 hours one way, and fighting to return her husband to her home. Parul didi with her surprise at running into me downstairs on a run, confused why I needed less salt and less oil, every day. Reena, with her kind smile and gentle food. Ranjitha, who woke me up at 7 am daily to ask me what to make, though she would decide regardless, who bear hugged me on the last day.)
The roommates
(Pati Atya and Chinmay in a 1 BHK, sharing the room with the air conditioning at night.
Sonia as she moved me into my first real apartment. Liam, and Living Together, sharing everything, and giving roles to our towels. Priyam and Priyam’s mother who stayed with us for 3 months, making green chutney and mathri for me, sending me Whatsapps on holidays from Delhi and Dubai. Kalyani, who watched more television than I thought humanly possible, and was generous with her in-between time, had a Delhi accent and always bought nice olive oil. Eli, who habited me into a coffee habit, a news-reading habit, and an admiration for purposeful floating. Aditi, my wife, filling our dinner table with perpetual dark chocolate, and my heart with the lessons of friendship.)
The human touch
(Her gentle hand resting carefully on my head. His face between my hands, eyes deep and wide and wet. Her small bun under my fingers. His soft back under my fingernails, as I scratch. His body curving around mine. Her morning arms around my neck. His wet palms in mine, walking down the monsoon street. Sharing shoulders, elbows, backs on the Bombay local with the Nikita’s, Pallavi’s, Jenny’s of the world.)
The Sunday routines.
(Sleeping in late, painting alone on the floor. Sleeping in late, wandering the Bandra market, trying and failing to find the right kind of bleach, or masala, or pressure cooker ring. Sleeping in late, running in circles in Diamond District heat. Sleeping in late, cooking breakfast for afternoon lunch. Sleeping in late, meandering to Airlines for dosa, to Cubbon Park for lazy play.)
Perhaps most of all, the realizations.
(I may be home anywhere, with the right people. I am never as bad as I think I am. I too, can exist here. Hurt and hurting are inevitable. Giving generously is healing, and hard to do. I have privilege in the world, so so so much. And I can — get better, be better, fail, burn out, struggle, and persevere.)
Found: Whilst selling post-college clothes at Crossroads in Venice. Exchanged for 10x worth in clothing, most likely.
Lost: To sweat and humidity. What were once silver and round are now brown and kind of round. But they’ll never truly leave me, I’ll let them rust fixed into my ears first.
Help me say: This is me.
The offbeat hoop // Dec 2017
Found: Consignment store in Brooklyn while also buying a green satin jacket on Dec 30, trying to be cool enough for the flop NYC New Year’s Eve that we ran through sub-zero temps for, were late to, and spent the whole time arguing. The triangular golden lining on a weird night.
Lost: and found, and lost again. Like the relationship. Still have half the set. Like the relationship.
The cool geometric wooden // the granola // Nov 2017
Found: A gift from Sonia from some hip Bombay boutique art show.
Clashed with the ragged linen pants and cut-off t-shirts and rain-friendly sandals I insisted on wearing because “I live in India now.”
Lost: to the whims of a flimsy travel case.
Help me say: Buy some new clothes Shalaka.
The busy bombay street purchase // Aug 2018?
Found: Probably en route to a Bombay local train station after a field visit, feeling sweaty and drained and in need of a small beautiful thing. Pairs well with 10 rupee soan papdi.
Lost:Still with me, but probably to weak earlobes on a dance floor.
Help me say: Reasonable but with a twist.
The ‘Indian’ // Oct 2018
Found: Actually not in India, but at a vintage shop in Eagle Rock walking with another’s mother.
Lost: Not yet.
Help me say: This shirt may be stained but I’m still channeling Janelle Monae.
The nice enough // Nov 2018
Found: In a street stall on the banks of Tungabhadra river in Hampi
Lost: Somewhere between Bombay, Bangalore, and the rest of my life.
Help me say: I washed my hair today
The fancy looking // Dec 2018
Found: The cheap trinket side of Khan Market, Delhi. Bought whilst walking alone in dramatic Delhi winter and questioning my life choices before dining alone with expensive wine at Perch. Lost: Life was too harsh for their cheapness.
The dainty fabindia // May 2019
Found: Shopping for a colleague’s wedding on a pouring and beautiful Bangalore Sunday evening.
Loved by a lost and loved one.
Lost: Broken in transit. I’m saving the pieces, just in case.
Help me say: I am beautiful.
The well traveled // June 2019
Found: Tibetan Refugee Market in Leh, Ladakh
The earring version of a post-breakup haircut. I’m different, I’m new, I’m still here.
Lost: One of the dangly stones. I’ll still wear them.
Espresso over ice. A shoulder baring tank top. Echoing strings, mournful voice in my earbuds. And also. Arre, chup! Big eyes with a smile and scolding a tiny one for making a mistake. Telling him where lambu is.
And also. Hugging. Eating Prateek’s matki chi usal and licking fingers. Sitting with the office boys at lunch. Sitting without them.
Walking down the street holding hands. Staring at those walking down the street holding hands. Staring at girls with bared shoulders, bared knees, bared clavicles on the train. Being one. Trying to tease in lilting Hindi. PJs (Poor Jokes). Dividing a table veg / nonveg, and sitting in the middle.
Talking about UX decisions in Hindi. Switching between aap (formal) and tum (informal) repetitively with a single person. Turning up my American to speak on the phone with a British airline agent. Wonderful, thank you so much for your help. Hope you have a lovely rest of your day.
Measuring love with a language yardstick. Measuring love with food. Measuring love at all.
Using a minimizing, all-encompassing waha (over there) for the entire US and summarizing it in sentences. Waha pe toh log aise hi hain… // over there people are just like… Softening spoken English, na’s and kya’s.
I don’t belong. I do belong. I am here. I am there. I am both. Where do I come home? Where do I come back to?
It blends.
There isn’t Indian. There isn’t American. There isn’t person of color. There isn’t straight. There is a person. With experiences. There is walking down the street and being stepped aside for, because of the cost of this backpack and these pants and this lighter dark skin. There is walking down the street and being stared at. There is walking down the street and fearing stares. There is walking down the street and buying an expensive noodle salad. There is walking down the darkened street and fearing a car that follows. There is walking down the street and smiling at the guard who before was staring at your clothing and now is nodding like an uncle with recognition, because in the daytime he sits at the school next door and in the nighttime he sleeps on the building grounds. There is thank you. There is a smile. There is nodding sideways. There is nodding vertically.
It is.
Go further. There is no stitching it all together to make a culture pixel quilt of a personality. There is what exists, with each combination of people. Laughing, crying, being, hugging. There is no chameleon. There is one. There is me.
Alimentarily 