Forty-Something Years in Ninaland

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Oct
18

Dear nina, it’s me god…

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I am very hesitant to tell this story. It may seem that I have no problem sharing my personal stories. This is a story I don’t know how to talk about. I know there are those who share this story, but this is my version:

I want to try to describe what my first encounter with ‘insanity’ was like.

I put that in quotes because I think that mania can partially be a spiritual experience as well as a complete breakdown. In my view it can be both simultaneously.

Let’s start from the very begining a very good place to start. I was 24. This was before I was diagnosed as Bipolar or Manic Depressive.

I was lying in bed. I had had my first panic attacks ever. I had taken Klonopin the night before. I was lying there and I heard a voice in my head. I didn’t hear any sound in my ears, it was just in my head. It said: “Wake up.” So I did.

“Go to the window and look outside.” I felt compelled to listen to this voice, so I got up and walked over the cream colored carpet and stared out the window. It was a sunny beautiful summer day. No one was outside, but the grass was as green as ever.

“What do you see?” the voice asked me.

“I see the sky and the green green grass and the neighbors house,”I replied silently in my head.

“You are in Heaven,” the voice said. I looked around again, this time more closely.

“But everything is the same,” I responded.

“Exactly,” the voice said.

I didn’t really get it. I was confused. Am I still in a house, with my family? I looked all around the room, nothing had changed. The walls were still white, nothing had moved. Except one thing, me: I was completely relaxed and at peace. I was suffering from panic attacks and extreme anxiety the night before. It was all gone. I felt free.

I don’t remember if the voice said anything to help me understand what was going on, but finally the voice came back.

“You are god,” it said.

For a moment I felt the complete universe inside me. There I was, there god was, in the trees, in the blue blue sky, in the green green grass. There I was, in everything. I was everything and everything was me. For a few moments I was at complete peace.

Then the voice went away, as suddenly as it came. nina came back on earth, as quickly as she had risen to heaven. The anxiety came back, it was almost worse. What am I supposed to do now? I thought. “Am I supposed to tell  my family that I am god?” I silently asked. I pictured myself as a big huge fat man…then I looked in the mirror, with my long hair and flushed cheeks.

I started to freak the fuck out. I went in the shower and cried violently. I didn’t go to work, I couldn’t go to work. I had to speak to someone, but no one was going to understand. I was scared, scared of myself, scared of the world. How could I explain this to them? To be continued…

OK let’s stop for a second here. I’m an English instructor, what is really happening in this story? Let’s analyze it, let’s write a paper on it. What does it mean to hear a voice in your head? In clinical terms it means you have a mental illness. And I do.

Could god have been communicating with me? That is a matter of opinion. Yes, I think god was talking to me. I have to tell you something, I don’t feel comfortable sharing this with the entire world wide web. But something is compelling me to tell this story. Now how can I be crazy and be talking to god? I don’t know how crazy works, but I’ll tell you this. A lot of people who are in psychiatric wards think some spiritual being is talking to them. Let’s hypothetically say that spiritual beings, including god, can communicate with people. Why do these people go crazy?

In my humble opinion the human mind and body is not ready for this. It shocks the system and creates havoc. It creates what you call insanity. It creates physical symptoms, mental symptoms and can be deadly. Mental illness is real. So is this, whatever you want to call it.

I think I was enlightened for a moment. Now you may ask, do I think I’m an enlightened person? Yes and no, more no than yes. I think enlightenment comes and goes. There are times when I feel like I’m channeling a source. There are times I’m more human than you are, all I want is a glass of wine, some chocolate cake and a good laugh. Sometimes I’m exceptionally miserable. We call this depression. I think the depression is when I forget my essential nature is pure love. It is also depression in the clinical and medical sense and that is why I take anti-depresents.

Just because I think it’s a spiritual condition to be manic and depressed does not mean at all that I’m suggesting that anyone, including me, ever get off of their medication. I will tell you, maybe in the future, what happened to me when I got off of my meds. Let me repeat that: I’m not telling you to get off you your meds. You can still have enlightenment with your meds. It is a lie and a myth that medication stops source from entering you. Maybe man made medicines, but god is in man, so god made medicines, so we could handle our spiritual states. So we could sanely find peace.

At first I did not tell a single soul about this experience. How could I, I thought? They would lock me up, they would not understand.

This voice said I was in Heaven. Most of us think Heaven is a place far away in the sky. In my religion, Sikhism, we believe Heaven and Hell are on Earth. We believe there is a place where god resides in the universe that is the ‘real’ Heaven, and we don’t believe there is a place called in Hell in this universe. We think that Heaven and Hell can both be experienced on Earth.

For a moment there, i thought i was in heaven. heaven with a little h. the earth heaven. my mind felt pure love. i loved that grass that i was looking at and the sky and myself in the mirror. i loved that god i was talking too.

Now you might ask, so do I think I am god? No. I think you are god.

I think that each one of us is a god, has god inside us, and in our true selves we are the entire universe. I think of myself more of a goddess than I think of myself as a god. I am a very flawed person. I can be mean, egotistical and angry. I’m not god. I repeat this, so no one goes away thinking that I think I’m god: I am not god in the traditional sense that we think of god. I am simply her daughter.

The voice I heard had no gender. However after I was done with my little experience, I thought of it as male because the world has jaded me so much into thinking god has a gender. After many years of dealing with this ‘condition’ it has occurred to me that it is about time that a woman be telling this kind of story. Men have been telling these kind of stories for ages.

I would like to make a disclaimer: This is my individual experience only. I am certified as mentally ill. However, not every mentally ill person or bipolar person has had similar experiences. Some people do not have a spiritual experience when they first discover they have a disease. Often times the experiences they have are very negative and related to suicide etc. Just because I had this experience does not mean I’m special. I happen to think everyone is special and that god is communicating in some form with everyone. The way I believe god communicates with most people is through intuition, thought and experience.

(I have to have a caveat for those who don’t believe in god. For you this is all my imagination and I have a chemical imbalance and that is as far as it goes. I’m OK with that because I do have a chemical imbalance. In my eyes the chemical imbalance caused a spiritual balance. In your eyes I was having a delusion. I respect an atheist’s opinion because you are questioning authority, the greatest authority: religion and god.)

If you do believe in god, you might think this is real or you may think it is a severe hallucination. Either way, it is my experience.

When is the last time you thought the universe or god might be giving you a sign? This sign could be in the next song you hear, in the next article you read, the next commerical on T.V.,  in the next word you hear someone utter…

nina

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 October 18th, 2015  
 ninakaur0  
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Oct
17

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

American-pie-e1331733449199A long long time ago
I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while…

I want to make people happy.

I want these words to make them smile.

I want to be that girl, just for a little while,

I can’t rhyme forever, it won’t last,

But for a moment it’s a blast.

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

I ate the american pie for dessert and felt like throwing it up,

i don’t have bulimia but i tried it when i was 14,

I couldn’t physically make myself throw up, it just didn’t happen.

I ate too many cookies, mini chocolate chip cookies and I had just lost some weight,

so i tried to throw up in the toilet.

I believe at that moment, the universe intervened and made sure that I could not do it.

I would have become a bulimic I think.

You dodge bullets in life.

I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died

I wanted to be a psychologist until my friend who was suicidal told me her problems.

Honestly, I can’t listen to people with the intensity needed by a therapist.

I couldn’t listen to her depths of misery.

Buddhists say life is suffering.

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

I wrote a book no one’s read,

I do have faith…in something…in everything…

I don’t know when I became myself, or even if I am myself. Am I nina?

Who is nina? nina hides behind her computer and her words.

Behind her selfies there’s no self. She can talk a good game, but it’s a show sometimes.

I want to really talk sometimes. I want to tell you how broken I am. I have been abused by life.

I mean it knocked me around quite a bit. Can you relate?

Now I’m coming home. I only have one home.

I don’t think we have a soul inside us, I think we are inside a soul.

I think it is like a balloon all around us. I have decided to nest in my soul.

And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

I don’t want to die. I mean ever.

sometimes I don’t want to live forever either

isn’t there a place in-between?

not that i want to end it all. but i get tired of living every day.

I mean you get up in the morning and you have to live.

I only die in my sleep. Sleep is not death, just practice.

I had a dream…I have a dream…that one day people will all sit together,

I mean the whole fucking world will stop for one minute every day at the same time and breathe.

A moment of silence. So we can hear the universe talk. It doesn’t always get a voice.

I wonder what it will say?

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
‘Cause fire is the devil’s only friend

I dream…in color and…

sometimes i want to press the delete button on my past.

I maybe, I could cut and paste it so it reads better.

I almost said fuck you to a police officer once.

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play

you can’t break pandora like you can break a juke box.

You can’t stop the internet. Even for a moment. So we can all breathe.

We are not people we are machines without pockets

We are flawed, flawed fakers

And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken

I need to scream, but I have to schedule it. I don’t have time. I don’t have time to be me.

I have to be a robot in the rain

losing all it’s power.

You can’t turn me off, you can’t turn me on

I’m neither here, nor there.

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

There was a bomb in the american car

that was really made in mexico

because we don’t like our own hands

our footprints are in the sands

our feet are standing but we are not

we sit, we wait, we sleep we dream

we are always talking in between

the lines are blurry our faces are fat

there is no worry, this is this, and that is that

there are people who can’t scream,

so I scream for them

And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

My keyboard is a piano

I sing from here

I’m out of tune

there is not harmony

where are my socks?

These are the buildings,

These are the blogs.

nina

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 October 17th, 2015  
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Oct
16

When did you stop dancing?

 

Malala_Yousafzai_at_Girl_Summit_2014

Malala Yousafzai

“I tell my story, not because it is unique, but because it is not. It is the story of many girls.”—Malala Yousafzai.

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”—Lewis B. Smedes

Is there someone you need forgive?

Nobel Peace Prize winner Malala Yousafza forgave the men in the Taliban who shot her in the head.

Let me rephrase and repeat that: She was shot in the head and forgave the shooters.

Now think about who you need to forgive, and what those people did to you. I’m not saying that it is less impactful to your life than what happened to Malala. Everything is relative. What I’m saying is, anyone can forgive anything.

I’ve told this story before, but I’m going to tell it again with a different emphasis. I had a best friend all throughout elementary school, we’ll call her Jenny. Mostly we danced for hours to the same Madonna tunes over and over again. We were inseparable. I watched Jenny’s mom go from a brilliant charming professor to a bitter alcoholic. Eventually when we got to sixth grade, Jenny’s mother died. It turns out her father was having an affair and he married another woman very quickly after his wife’s death. Jenny and her stepmother did not get along at all.

In the meantime I moved away and our friendship kind of faded. However we would see each other occasionally. She lived sort of in the fast lane with boys and booze. I was a good girl. To make a long story short Jenny called me one day when I was a senior in high school. I remember I took the phone and hid away in my parents bathroom, I remember staring at the white tiles. Her stepmother kicked her out of the house. Could she stay with us for a little while? There were serious things going on in my home at that time so I had to tell her, no. It was a bad time. I wasn’t lying. I will never forget the words she said to me, “I guess this is one of those times when you know who your real friends are.”

She always said what was on her mind, but this time she said what was on my mind. Was I being a good friend by putting my family first? They would have said no anyways, it was a really complicated situation. I’m being vague on purpose. To protect my family’s privacy. Anyways the thing is, was I being a good person, did I do the right thing? I did the only thing. I had no choice.

However it haunted me forever. She eventually made up with her stepmom, but she didn’t come to my graduation party. Her dad and her brother and her stepmom came, but they said she had a stomach ache. A good old stomach ache. I made her sick. I couldn’t think about it. I basically stopped thinking about her really, we never spoke again. However I didn’t forget, forget that she felt betrayed.

Fast forward to around five years ago, I tried to find Jenny on Facebook. I tried to find her on People searching websites. I stayed up all night, trying to search the Internet to find her. I didn’t understand how she had absolutely no online presence. And then I found it, an article in a newspaper. Jenny was dead.

I have no idea how she died. It only talked about her funeral.

I didn’t do anything wrong and I still felt guilty because she didn’t understand that it wasn’t my fault. I called her house, I found her father’s number. I didn’t leave a message but he called my house back and my dad answered. They knew each other and said hello. Her father didn’t mention anything about Jenny. My dad said I probably called him.

I never called back. I don’t want to know how she died.

I imagine many things. Mostly drug overdoses, she was in the wrong crowd.

I need to forgive myself. Forgive myself for not reaching out sooner, for not explaining myself better. For not still trying to be her friend. I wanted her to have the opportunity to forgive me, so I would feel better.  So she would feel better. So we could dance again.

Why do we forgive? Because it heals us. We do it for ourselves, not the other person. There are many people in my life that I want to forgive. But most of all I want to forgive myself.

I forgive myself for gaining weight.

I forgive myself for not taking the necessary steps until now of getting my work published.

I forgive myself for taking my life for granted sometimes.

And on and on…

What do you want to forgive yourself for?

I just read an article that said that if you went to a Shaman feeling depressed he would ask you things like: When did you stop dancing?

dance nina (1)

Forgive yourself for not dancing, but get up and dance.

Forgive yourself for not being happy in the past and be happy now.

The only way to be truly happy is to realize that you must forgive every person in your life that has hurt you. Forgive yourself for everything. Forgive god for being a guy who just seems to stand around watching tragedy after tragedy. I’m sure he has his reasons.

Does that seem like a tall order? Maybe impossible to forgive it all. Striving towards that is going to make a real difference in your state of mind. Hanging on to pain is usually our biggest obstacle in life.

You probably have forgiven god, maybe you have even forgiven other people. So why is it so hard to forgive yourself? The truth is we often don’t give ourselves the respect we give other people. We are really hard on ourselves.

We are usually playing an elaborate game of self-sabotage. The easiest way to ruin your life is to hate yourself for the mistakes you’ve made.

But why did we come on earth, what is our purpose? I think we came here to experience the different ways in which love manifests itself in creation. I think we came here in particular to make mistakes. Not only do we learn from our mistakes but we learn to love the flawed beings that make mistakes.

I will tell you who is the biggest flawed being of them all: me. You might think that of yourself too. If I can love myself despite all the mistakes I’ve made, I can love anybody. Isn’t that the lesson, to love people and things that are flawed?

If you ask me, I would say even god has flaws. Is that blasphemous?  If we were made in the image of god, he has got to be flawed. Maybe god created forgiveness because he had to forgive himself, for creating things like diseases and natural disasters. Even the Pope has flaws, he met with Kim Davis for god’s sake!

If god and the Pope can forgive themselves, I can forgive myself for not watering my plants for the last month. It will be OK. They haven’t died yet.

nina

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 October 16th, 2015  
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Oct
15

Me ‘Working’——–Re-Post

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Me: serving food and coffee and selling knives, bras and children’s apparel…

italian pasta background with olive oil. food assortment

italian pasta background with olive oil. food assortment could be poisonous.

So let me tell you about my stints as a server.  I might be the world’s worse server, or waitress.  I worked for a hot minute at Olive Garden; it was a disaster from the beginning.  First of all, the guy who interviewed me said I spoke good English.  I came in with an English DEGREE from University of Michigan, why was he surprised that I spoke good English?  I was more upset because he was Black and didn’t know he was being racist!

So he gave me the job because he was so impressed with my “English.”  The year before I got hired someone died at Olive Garden, a fact totally unrelated to me being hired.  However they told me that they keep their bathrooms clean, because if a customer sees a dirty toilet they will think they have a dirty kitchen.  Speaking of being anal, they would measure the temperature of their food to a certain degree to ensure that everything was properly cooked and no one else was murdered due to eating there.  I was, shall we say, not so impressed by all that.

What I wasn’t was very apt at was the whole computer system.  I thought waitressing would be an easy, no brainer.  Apparently computers are involved and multitasking with food and beverages requires quite a bit of brainpower.  I can barely eat and drink at the same time much less, serve food and compute.  I couldn’t seem to get the orders in on time, and get to the next table, and get to serving the next meal.  I never dropped any food on anyone’s head per say.  But one couple waited three hours for a steak.  Don’t ask me how I managed that.  Don’t ask me why they serve steak at Olive Garden.

detail of coffee mill with coffee beans and cup of coffee

detail of coffee mill with coffee beans and cup of coffee, our coffee wasn’t that good.

I once managed a café in a Jewish nursing home in Spanish Harlem.  Yes there was actually a Jewish nursing home in Spanish Harlem many years ago.  I don’t know if it still exists.  You can’t make this stuff up.

I think I would have more patience in the nursing home now; but back then I would get annoyed at the patients who came in and told me my coffee tasted like gasoline.  A lot of them smelled like Bengay, but that wasn’t the real problem.  The real problem was that they were a cranky crowd.

Everyone in there had a personality, and even though it was self-serve, I served many of them because their hands would shake.  Now I would think it was a brilliant opportunity for me to serve people.  Then I just thought it was pure annoyance.  These two very snarky women would actually talk about me right in front of my face, “She made my coffee all wrong!”  “Oh she’s a blithering idiot!”  Really I’m not kidding.

There was a very bitter old couple that I refused to let self-serve.  They were diabetic and I was not allowed to give them sugar.  Although I was not a nurse or doctor, I didn’t want to kill someone via sugar.  Murder by sugar:  don’t think I didn’t consider it a time or two.   Probably because the man in the couple would ask me for sugar and I would tell him no.  “That wench won’t give me sugar!” he would scream to his wife.  They were both hard of hearing.  “My coffee is not hot!” she would scream back.

I wanted to scream at them all.  But I maintained my composure.  I had a very anal boss too.  Once I lost the key to the ice cream machine.  I got really nervous and didn’t want to tell him because I thought he would yell at me.  So I just stopped selling ice cream to old people.  I figured none of them needed the sugar or fat.

Someone came into my café and told me that my manager used to be a drug addict.  Personally I didn’t care nor did I hold it against him.  The only thing that bothered me about him was him micromanaging me.  His heroin habit had nothing to do with me hating him.  Sure I might have been making international calls to my cousin who lived in Russia, but that was not really his issue.  That was a bone I had to chew with nursing home itself.  When they got their phone bill I’m sure they were thinking it was some random patient who was Russian.  There are Russian Jews.  Not that I’m trying to blame the Jews for anything…don’t mince my words…

Set of 5 knives on a white background

Set of 5 knives, would you pay $600 Dollars for these?

Did I tell you about the time in my senior year of high school that I tried to sell knives door to door?  It was a nightmare.  The knife set cost more than six hundred dollars. My entire savings was about six hundred dollars. Truthfully and honestly I didn’t believe anyone should buy a knife set for more than like twenty bucks.  I had no concept of the bourgeoisie at that time.  To top it all off, I tried to sell these expensive knives to Indian people.

My friend’s mom returned one knife because it cut her finger.  She said it was too sharp.  No one wanted to buy these knives, but sometimes they would buy one just to be nice.  My own parents didn’t buy a set because they thought it was a crazy waste of money.  It came to a point where I wanted to stab someone in the eye with one of those expensive knives if they didn’t buy one.  I think at some point people bought a knife just to keep me sane.  You can see how well that turned out…

Children's wear isolated over white background

Children’s wear—Random Jean Outfit

Way before these two jobs I had a job at a store called Jacobson’s in Birmingham, Michigan.  I worked in the kid’s clothes section.  Let’s just say I like kids, but am not at all interested in their clothing that sells for like more than my clothes.  I don’t understand the concept of buying expensive clothes for kids who will grow out of them in five minutes.  My parents bought me clothes from Kmart when I was a kid.  I grew up fine.  Or so I like to think.

This one old braud who worked there told our boss, that she, “didn’t trust me.”  For no good reason, other than I despised expensive children’s clothing.  She knew; she was smart.  The boss yelled at me one day because apparently it’s not working ‘over time’ if you just work an extra day the next week or something I did not understand.  Anyways…a man was running a department for little girls.  Do you see anything wrong with that picture or is it just me?  Men don’t know anything about little girl’s clothes nor should they.  I hate men for running everything…

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Then after that little stint I worked at Victoria’s Secret one year.  I was flattered when I discovered that at the time they only hired pretty women with good tits. Now I think it’s discrimination. What I didn’t know was that you had to promote your breasts, meaning stick em up in people’s faces and ask them if they needed any help.  They put me in the front, and I was to ask: You know that stupid question, “Can I help you with anything?” I had to ask it, over and over again.  I was so bad at asking that question because I sounded like I didn’t mean it.  I hated when people asked me if I needed help before I even barely entered a store

They gave me the job of a total ditz and then they were mad when I didn’t make good sales.

I got some nice lingerie out of the deal, but besides that and giving my discount to all my friends, it was a nightmare working with high-strung women who were trying to sell overpriced bras.  The women there were scary, they were obsessed.  They were playing orchestra music and I mentioned how soothing the music was, and this girl who did inventory was like, “The music matches the mood of the store.”  The mood of the store is sex, honey.  Selling sex.  We are here to sell pretty sex.  Do you realize that, you freak?  Stop romanticizing it!  Anyone who shops or works at Vicky’s wants to get laid in style, let’s call a spade a spade.  By the way, when is their semi-annual sale again?

So the moral of the story is, I’m no good at serving or retail jobs.

I don’t know if I’m really good at jobs in general.  I will be teaching soon so we will see how soon I get fired and have a good story to tell.  Here’s hoping I won’t have another war story about employment to tell you…

nina

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 October 15th, 2015  
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Oct
14

What’s Love Got To Do With It?

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So I met a guy who lived in a trailer with his mother. I’m not going to judge and either should you. (Just to give you a clue what a big deal it is that I don’t care, my father thinks 100K is the minimum salary my future husband should make). I honestly gave this guy a chance, however the problem was I didn’t find him attractive. What makes someone attractive? He had all that going for him but it was the physical that turned me off. I’m being serious when I say it wasn’t the trailer that turned me off, it was his look and his aura.

But what makes someone attractive to another person? It’s this thing, this unnamable thing. Some of the men I’ve fallen for in my life were not objectively handsome. Do we still use the word ‘handsome’? It makes me feel British.

What happened to handsome gentlemen?

Now with Internet dating and stuff, it’s hard to come at it with any kind of old fashion charm. I’m not old fashion, but some things never get old. Like manners. Also I really do think a guy should pay on the first date not only because women don’t get paid as much as men for the same jobs, but because women are usually risking their lives by sitting in a car with a completely unknown man. How many dudes are worried about their safety on a first date? What are the chances that a man will get raped by a woman on a blind date?

If we trust you enough to be alone with you, have the decency to pay for dinner. It’s all we ask, a little decency.

And after the man pays, this does not imply that he gets sex. In fact nothing implies that he will get sex until he gets sex or she moves on. The Internet is speeding things up in the dating process, you can go from texting to sexting in a minute. You can go from friends to friends with sextual benefits before you know it. You can have virtual sex before actual sex, or even before you ever meet in person. This is a disturbing trend.

What happened to courtship? Romance?

I know a couple who after many years still write love notes to each other on post it notes. They don’t email it to each other or text each other. They leave them around the house or the car. They really do love each other. You don’t have to express yourself like that to love…but it’s neat.

What happened to love anyways?

It got lost in the shuffle of life.  A lot of people don’t really believe in falling madly in love anymore. They think it’s a myth, a fairytale. I think hate is a myth and a fairytale.

I still believe there is such a thing as true love, even though I haven’t found it yet. I’ve fallen madly in love with the wrong men though, at times. That’s how I know crazy love can exist for another person. I don’t mean the kind of insane love that is self destructive.  I mean the kind that brings you up.

I know, I know all this lovey dovey talk sounds like a bunch of bull to a lot of people. We’ve all been hurt by love and know its dark side. Love can suck. The last time I was in love my heart got ripped out. Would I do it again? Yes. Why? I don’t know, I like love.

I might seem like some dopey romantic…maybe I am…but is there anything really wrong with that?

Let’s talk about the times I thought I was in love. I actually remember the name of the boy who I was in love with in Kindergarten, yes as a five-year-old I thought I was in love. He’s a real person so should I say his name? Well, what the hell if he ever reads this he should be flattered.  His name was Derrek White. I am amazed that I can’t remember what six times seven is, but I know his name. He was the first boy in our class who could spell, “white.” He was the most popular boy in class and he kissed all the girls in our class but didn’t kiss me. I remember someone asked him why and he said he just couldn’t.

Yes, as a five year old, that hurt. I don’t know why I feel a tinge of that five year old hurt right now. Wow, it’s funny how much childhood matters. You see when I was in kindergarten I developed sweat glands a little early and Derrek White and his friends would run around chanting, “Stinky Nina!” and chase me around the playground at Livonia Little Tots school. Again I feel a pang of pain. However that didn’t jade me from believing in love. I would obsessively watch soap operas when I was a little kid, that crap was not about love, it was about senseless drama. However I know somewhere in there Luke really loved Laura, Bo really loved Hope.

You wanna know how much of a romantic I was, in first grade? I would make up soap operas with my numbers in math. I remember it very clearly: The number two was a dude who wore suits, five was the bad boy, four was the good girl and six was the back stabbing bitch. This is in the actual mind of a six year old.

Alright, I will admit I watched too much T.V. as a child. I have a couple friends who did not grow up with T.V. at all, both of them think this true love biz whiz is hooey and I’m a naive romantic. I think they are jaded, tainted. They’ve been in love before and they loved it too. There is something they don’t trust about it.

The thing about love is, it’s not exactly trustworthy. It changes, the euphoria goes away and sometimes you are married to your best friend, but every now and then, they can still light your fire. I think passion can be sustained, and it is for some people. I think they work consciously hard at it though, they make it a priority.

Anyways…as an adult another time I thought I was in love was with a guy who was in Med School in the Caribbean. He was an Indian Muslim, my parents were a wreck that he was a Muslim. In their defense they are old. So, we would talk on the phone, my phone bill was astronomical. We would chat online and then we decided to meet in his hometown of Vancouver. To make a long story short I made a few days trip there, his father was dying, he met me for one night and never came back.

Why am I telling you sad stories to convince you that real love exists? First of all because I’m not going to reveal my actual love life for the whole world to read. That’s a little too much, even for me. Second of all, if I can believe in love after having many instances where my heart was shattered, then anyone can believe in love.

I have never been in a love that worked out, but that doesn’t mean that love doesn’t win in the end. This is not the end. Even if I died today, I know I’ve been loved by at least a couple men.

We exist in order to love. I mean I know it’s not just romantic love. However romantic love is sooo wonderful. It’s so amazing. It makes life worth living.

I know most of you either love or have loved someone deeply, with all your heart. Remember that…don’t let it make you doubt that truth and love exist. That true love exists.

“Love is that condition in the human spirit so profound that it empowers us to develop courage; to trust that courage and build bridges with it;
to trust those bridges and cross over them so we can attempt to reach each other.”
Maya Angelou

nina

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 October 14th, 2015  
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Oct
13

Dear Readers,

Thank you for seeing things from my eyes.

Thank you for seeing things from my eyes.

I want to stop for a second and tell you something. Yeah you. I am honored that you came here. I’ve become vulnerable here and revealed things about myself that are very personal. And some of you have commented, liked, and some of you have come back for more. You have no idea how much I appreciate this. I’m honored.

Honestly when people tell me they read my blog, I’m usually stunned. I wonder, why. I’m not doubting myself but am so amazed that this person is taking time to go into my head.

I’ve told you personal things about my mental illness, my fears and my fatal flaws. Do I worry that you will judge me? Yes. But I’m working on not being bothered by that.

One day I fear I might run out of things to say.

Sometimes I don’t know what to say, just like you.

There are days I have nothing to say. I try to write every day, but I don’t. My goal is to be six blog posts ahead of the game, but I’m not. Sometimes I feel inspired, I have to run to my computer, or I wake up in the middle of the night to write. Sometimes I can’t think an of idea to save my life. Sometimes I’m so bored with my own writing and my own self I want to vomit.

I don’t know if I’m making this look easy. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is hard. It is difficult to reveal your heart aches and your flaws. I have many of both. But sometimes, if you notice, I try to make you laugh. Because in the end, you have to laugh about it when you’ve cried enough. You know what my friend and I always say, “You know what we need up in this joint? Some hilarity.” Then we proceed to crack each other up.

Several people in my life have suggested I do stand up comedy. There is something stopping me from doing that. I think I like to mix the fun with the serious, I like to create different emotions in the same sitting. You can’t make people cry doing stand up comedy, unless they are crying with laughter. Raise your hand if you have cried reading any of my work? I would be honored if I made someone laugh or cry.

Some of the stuff I write is not funny, at all. Some of it is sad. I hope that it moves you. I hope that it inspires you. I hope it makes you think. I also hope at times it just entertains you.

I know I’m not consistent, I blog and then stop. I’m trying really hard to change that habit.

Why am I doing this, you might ask. All I can come up with is: It makes me happy. It does. Writing raises my vibration to a higher level. If you are someone who doesn’t believe in this vibration bullshit, let’s just say simply: It brings me joy. Yeah I want to make money doing this. Yeah I want to express myself. Yeah I want to teach something about life that I have learned. Mostly I want to share my experience of this life.

I believe we came on Earth to experience life with all it’s good, bad, and ugly. We came here to experience each other. We came here to love our experience…in the end our life is perfect. I’m showing you my imperfect life’s perfection. In the end we are here to experience the give and take of love…

My goals in life are strange. I want to help enlighten people. Then why am I not writing about Transcendental Meditation and such things? Because I think there is the spiritual in the temporal or worldly things. They have to both be addressed. This is the symbol in my religion, Sikhism, for both sides.

khanda

The two swords on the left and right symbolize how the spiritual and temporal are one. In Punjabi these are called Meeri Peeri.

I think the spiritual is in the mundane everyday existence of our lives. We have to get up in the morning and brush our teeth. Everyone on this planet does it. (Except for a few British folk I’ve heard.) But seriously it is a ritual we all participate in. We can all relate to this. People in countries that are at war, are all doing the same thing every morning. How is this spiritual you ask?

Everything in life can be spiritual if you let it. If you pay attention when you are brushing your teeth and really feel the sensations in your mouth, you are being aware and in the moment. If you on top of that, remember to be grateful. Grateful that you have the means to buy toothpaste, I’m serious. That you are lucky to be healthy. Be thankful that you have teeth. Be thankful that you are not British. I kid… But really thank the universe for giving you this lovely mouth to talk with. Without a mouth you would be mute, you would not be able to eat or kiss.

(Does this sound stupid to you? Be honest. It’s OK if it does. I mean my wish is that you won’t stop reading my blog because you are not at all interested in spiritual things. I hope you will still read because you are interested in my thoughts and you like my style. But I have no power over what you do.)

Gratitude is one of the highest forms of meditation. If you believe in prayer, it is probably one of the best prayers. Why be grateful for the boring act of brushing your teeth? Because it can become a meaningful ritual.

I have never had a cavity. That is not due to the fact that I brush my teeth after every meal, or avoid sweets. I do neither. It’s a phenomena in dentistry that some people, for some unknown reason have perfect teeth. My parents don’t have perfect teeth by any means. (I also have 20/20 vision, but that’s another story). My point is god gave me great teeth and I should be grateful for that. I know people who have had some serious tooth issues. And apparently tooth health can determine your overall health.

Now I guess is a good time as any to talk about my vision. I have perfect vision, and my father is blind. I should wake up every day thankful that I can see. I should have compassion for my father who lives in complete darkness. I have the compassion part down, it’s the gratitude I’m working on.

Unify's photo.

I’m not a Buddhist, nor am I always zen. But I appreciate this. I know it may not seem like this is a spiritually oriented blog. It may seem more like a random blog. Like a blog about whatever comes up in my head. Well it’s kinda both. My head is being dictated by my soul, in a way. At least I want it to be. The things that come up in my head are things that matter to me. Nothing matters to me more than love.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. We came here to love.

The most spiritual thing you can do is truly love someone, and love life and god. Yeah even god, or the force in the universe. Whatever name you want to call it.

I don’t actually talk that much directly about my spiritual journey, however I intend to do this more explicitly as time goes on. I will tell you this, I sit for minutes, sometimes hours, meditating. I don’t do it every day. I don’t do it for many days and weeks at a  time. But I do it.

Why do I do it? For the same exact reason I write. It makes me happy. It also makes me feel like me. It allows the real me to come out and play. I’m happiest when I’m in tune with my soul. And when I am in tune with yours as well, I am even happier. You, yes you.

I want to touch each and every one of you. I hope something I say somewhere sometime makes a difference in your life.

I used to have a goal of winning the Nobel Prize in Literature. I don’t want that anymore…My dream is to be on a bus and have someone recognize me and say to me, “Your work changed my life.” That’s it, one person. Doesn’t even have to be a good person. It could be anyone. That would be enough for me. My work is done. I would continue to work, but the satisfaction I would get from this would be profound. No prize could give me that gift.

I don’t take the bus, so this will probably never happen the way I envision it. But one day I will cry with joy when it manifests itself in some manner.

Am I writing for you or am I writing for myself? I’m doing this for both of us. I want to share with you my journey. I want to also understand it myself.

Thank you. I am deeply touched that you visit me every now and then.

I love you. I know that sounds completely off the wall. But I do. I don’t care if I don’t know you. I came here to love, and I love all of you for listening to my story. This one’s for you…

mad quote

From Alice In Wonderland

Welcome to Ninaland.

nina

 

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 October 13th, 2015  
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Oct
12

I could tell you…

photo (7)I could tell you I’m not real, I’m a figment of your imagination. I could tell you this is all hocus pocus. I’m blurry. I could tell you that sometimes I lie, to keep the peace. I could tell you that the story of my life is being edited by me. I could tell you it’s the particular memories I choose as scenes like a movie, that define who I am.

I could tell you I was a pretty baby. I was so full of life, I would make friends in grocery isles, “Hi! Hi!” I would laugh and say to complete strangers, and they would follow me, my spirits were so infectious. I could tell you I went to India when I was like three and came back at like the age of four and a half.

I could tell you I was different after that trip. I no longer laughed uncontrollably. I cried, I thought my parents were going to leave me when they went to work because they left me in India. I thought every day they would never come back. I would hold on to my father’s leg as he tried to get into his car. I could tell you how scraped my knees doing that.

I could tell you I cried all day with the babysitter and once she asked if it was because I didn’t like her new hairdstyle, as she stared at herself in our bathroom mirror. I could tell you when they sent me to preschool and daycare all day at Livonia Little Tots, sometimes I would get hungry because I have Hypoglycemia. They would never give me a snack if it wasn’t snack time. I could tell you how cold the hallway floor was when my mother was late picking me up and the teacher had to stay late and I was hungry. I could tell you sometimes in Kindergarten I didn’t play during recess. I just sat on the bench.

I could tell you hunger made me a chubby child. I could tell you when I went to first grade a girl named Kylee told me I was uglier than her little Native American doll. I could tell you I never fit in in the first grade. Second grade was better, I had a creative teacher who made us make collages and do plays. In third grade I could tell you how my best friend, my cousin, moved in with her family for six months.

I could tell you when they left I would search for their car every time we went to Gurudwara or the Sikh Temple. I could tell you hanging out with my two cousins and my sister were some of the best childhood memories I have. I could tell you we made forts and played doctor. I could tell you my cousin is now a doctor and I’m still making forts.

I could tell you how I thought I was white in my non-diverse neighborhood. I could tell you I was given more than hints that I was different.

I could tell you about how we moved when I was twelve. In my old neighborhood I was the only minority. In my new one, Indians and Asians were everywhere. I could tell you I wasn’t the smartest girl in town anymore. I could tell you I hated math.

I could tell you in high school I got bad acne and went from a pretty girl, to an ashamed girl. It lasted for a year. I could tell you I started to realize I was someone by the time I graduated. I could tell you how my college days were some of the best days of my life. I could tell you I loved reading and writing. I could tell you I was happy.

I could tell you about how I joined the real world as a temp in D.C. and hated it. I could tell you about my boyfriend who threatened to kill himself if I left him.

I could tell you what it’s like to have a panic attack because someone almost sexually attacks you. I could tell you what it’s like to have god talk to you. I could tell you what it’s like to still wonder if that was a delusion.

I could tell you what it is like to be in New York City…at Columbia University…following your dreams. I could tell you what it’s like to be hospitalized because you laughed too loud. I could tell you what it’s like to find out your laughing is a disease.

I could tell you what’s like to not be able to get out of bed except to pee. I could tell you what it’s like to be applauded for your work when you read it aloud in a crowd. That rush, that feeling that you are beautiful, inside and out. I could tell you what it’s like to be beautiful.

I could tell you what it’s like when you lose everything and end up in a hospital again. I could tell you what it’s like to be crazy. To hurt everyone you know. I could tell you what it’s like to go on and off meds, to be sane and insane agin and again. To move to Chicago and New York. I could tell you what it’s like to fail at life.

I could tell you what it’s like to run away from home and go back to New York City. I could tell you what’s like to be homeless and live in hotels. I could tell you what it’s like to finally break down.

I could tell you about the years it takes to recover. I could tell you about the medicines and depression and how it makes you gain weight and lose hope. I could tell you about things getting better and friends, that were there for me from the beginning to the end. I could tell you about losing my best friend. I could tell you about gaining a new one. I could tell you what it’s like to not be able to cry but have so much to cry about.

I could tell you I don’t regret being alive.

I could tell you that this rollercoaster is now steady. I could tell you I could have another breakdown at any moment in my life.

I should tell you I don’t care, I’m going to live anyways.

“God already knows what we’re made of, but perhaps He wants us to learn what we’re made of. I think we would all agree that we learn more from our tough times than from our easy times.”—-John Bythew

nina

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 October 12th, 2015  
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Oct
11

Digitally Drunk

freeimage-3159575-highRemember when the Internet started and you only had to remember one password? How many passwords at this point do you honestly have or are you using the same one over and over and over again to infinitum? I guess that is frowned upon in the industry due to the fact that you can be easily hacked. And how do you even make up a password that you are going to remember? It has to have a capital letter, a number, a penis.  I don’t know why I said that. Was it even funny? I can’t tell, my sense of humor has been hacked.

And how do you make up something that’s relevant enough to your life, yet not obvious? And do you share your passwords with your significant other? I mean no, I don’t think so. This is one of the reasons I don’t have a significant other, but I refuse to share! I need some privacy in my accounts, before I blab every damn detail of my life in my blog! Goddammit!

What about identity theft? As I always say, you want my identity? Come and get it!  When you find out how much money you owe, you might regret it. I know someone whose bank account has been broken into like six times. She buys everything online, even like toothpaste. I guess that’s what you get for not wanting to run your own errands, get in a car, and live this life with your own hands and feet. I mean this particular individual is hella busy. However if the whole world starts getting everything delivered, none of us will ever leave our homes and our tablets or computers.

We would never get off of Facebook. Speaking of Facebook, why are they so greedy? I mean I have over two thousand or so ‘friends’, (no I don’t really have two thousand friends, it’s through this authors network). Facebook will only share my blog posts with a fraction of those people unless I pay them. And still only a few see it. I pay them five dollars a day. That’s a coffee and a bagel a day. I still get coffee and something to eat almost every day, at Starbucks of all places. Basically the world is robbing me blind!

And how does Facebook work anyways, why are the likes on my Facebook page different than the likes at the end of this article? Where do these likes at the end of this article go? To Facebook infinity? These are the questions that must be answered in this new digital life. The number of likes are important. These are the digits of our lives. I’m a little obsessed with blog statistics as well, I like to know how many visitors I am getting. I tried to set up Google Analytics, they wanted me to do computer acrobatics, which I’m no good at. And what’s up with google? Why can you only open one gmail account on your computer at a time?

I’m checking one of a few gmail accounts right now, I’m at Starbucks. It’s sort of one of my ‘offices’ where I do my writing. I don’t mind the noise, if you mind noise don’t come here, they play weird music too. My friends call me Light White FM, because I listen to soft rock. Their Internet is going in and out, and god forbid I deal with that when I’m writing words that could save the universe. Remember when most places in the universe didn’t have wifi? Remember when there was no wifi? I remember the first time I could take my computer outside on the deck and use the Internet wirelessly. I was amazed. Now I’m amazed I used to use a landline dial-up service, was it true you couldn’t be on the phone and use the Internet simultaneously or am I making that up? It was rough back then.

The universe is sort of at our fingertips with this web invention, I mean soon we will be chatting with aliens online. I sometimes feel like I’m chatting with aliens when I log into Match.com. I know I’ve talked addendum about online dating. Can I just say one more thing? I promise not to bring it up for a while again. Can I say there has to be a better way. Don’t you people know someone who would be good for me? I know most of you are complete strangers, but do I seem comepletely undatable to you? Do I seem like marriage material at all, someone you could take home to mom?

Yeah I know, my personal bio sucks. I mean I won’t give all the good stuff away, but I’m mentally ill, broke as a joke and I live in my parents basement, literally. There’s tons more attributes I could add like acid reflex, but I’m just gonna leave you with that as a taste of what I have to offer. Show this post to your nearest eligible bachelor and see if he perks up! (And this is a shout out to you random guys who have messaged me on Facebook or called me on Facebook from India, check out my bio. I don’t think it’s worth a visa).

Oh don’t you worry I’m not down on myself about all that is not right with my life! I’m actually happy for once in my life. I don’t know how it happened, but the universe is finally cooperating with me in many ways. Things are going my way, I’m on my way to a better life, a better me. Part of this bettering of me I want to do is not be so digitally hooked. I’m on the Internet or the phone like seventy percent of my day sometimes. If not more. I write straight on the internet, no Word or a yellow legal pad. I just go straight to the source. It’s gonna bite me in the ass if WordPress goes bankrupt and I lose all my work.

freeimage-17955858-web

Remember when we saved stuff on disks? Ha ha, that seems funny to me now. A collection of disks seems so far removed and hilarious to me. Remember floppy disks, you could literally throw them in the sky like a boomerang. They were actually floppy. Although in their defense, my flash drive is so tiny I’m not really sure what pocket or purse I put it in. It has all my college lesson plans in it, all of them, on one flash drive the size of a walnut.

I guess the lessons are on my computer as well. This Mac is my best friend in terms of gadgets, but it’s been in the shop more times then I care to recall. They changed the mother board on it like three times. I don’t know what a mother board is, I barely know how to do more than turn this machine on. But I’ve been told that mother boards are kinda important. Why did I spend so much money to buy a Mac? The PC’s I had took more than five minutes to start, they would give me weird update messages I had to click on, and they got viruses. So I shelled out the money. Actually you shelled out the money, at the time I was funded by government student loans.

God I gotta pee but it’s a conundrum to do that when you have a nice computer and you are at Starbucks…you don’t want to pack up shop just to go to the bathroom. You could ask the nearest dude to watch your computer. The nearest dudes to me are speaking some Asian language I can’t identify. They are deep in Asian conversation. What is a sister to do? I’m gonna interrupt them before my leg starts shaking even more.

I used the men’s bathroom. I can’t believe I’m admitting this. So shoot me. I couldn’t wait for the bitch in the women’s bathroom to finish her business. Maybe someone thought I was transgendered…not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m serious there is nothing wrong with Caitlyn or all the other unknown transgendered folk. (I had to add a moment of activism). So back to me, yeah with my long hair and frilly clothes no one is gonna think I’m a dude. I’m sort of unquestionably a woman. I wrote once about how ‘feminine’ everyone thinks I am. It’s weird.

I was on the phone and told someone my computer is dying, and this chic out of nowhere asks me if I need a Mac charger. That was incredibly nice, I didn’t take her up on it because I’m tired and want an excuse to go home, but I told her thanks like three times. then I told her no one does anything like that. Then I said I wouldn’t even do such a thing for someone else. She looked at me curiously. I think I ruined the whole gesture by admitting that…

“The Internet is so big, so powerful and pointless that for some people it is a complete substitute for life.”—Andrew Brown

So remember when there was no Internet? Come on old folks, you can go there with me? What the fuck did we do with our precious time? Talk to each other? Live? No cell phones…remember that? Landlines. Remember when people could not get a hold of you for weeks, months? People like your parents. My parents thought I ran away once when I lived in D.C. because I didn’t call them for like a month.

I’m not comfortable with the fact that the last thing I kiss goodnight is my Mac or my iPhone. My gadgets are too much a part of my existence. I mean look at what just happened, someone  on Facebook just questioned if one of my stories was made up on my blog. This is not fiction, people. Anyways, I was deep in thought about what I’m writing here, and I saw that I had a message on Facebook, so I immediately dropped everything and checked. I’m digitally drunk. I can’t make informed decisions, my facilities, I mean faculties (see what I’m talking about?) are compromised. My friend fell on her face while walking and looking at her phone. She couldn’t walk in a straight line.

There was one time when I was talking on my iPhone, writing, surfing the Internet, watching T.V. muted while listening to Pandora all at the same time. I’m not making this up.

freeimage-15723305-high

This is getting out of control. Ooops I did it again. I really am playing with my heart. This can’t be healthy. I just posted something in a group I’m on in Facebook and I couldn’t spell a word and couldn’t find spellcheck. So I googled it. I remember when I could sort of spell. Now it’s all gone. I’m having a Facebook comment conversation with a complete stranger. I’m also trying to edit this very article. I just went on the Internet again…I’m sick. Help me.

nina

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 October 11th, 2015  
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Oct
10

I Just Don’t Know Anymore…

SIkh ManThis is a picture of a Sikh man not a Muslim man. Sikhs are a religious group based in India. Please google us and learn more.

I don’t know if I can write this post. I broke out in to tears at dinner today. I was at an Indian restaurant with a white friend and I told her I was really sorry but I couldn’t handle what is going on. Two things, there are anti-Muslim rallies going on today and tomorrow. We got an email from the Gurudwara or Sikh Temple to be careful, people think Sikhs are Muslims because Sikh men wear turbans and have long beards. There could be violence targeted towards Sikhs. Second, there were two more school shootings today. Enough said.

Look I’m a little discombobulated. I don’t know if this is the right thing to say. I don’t know if these two issues are related but I’m related to both issues. I’m going to be random and senseless today.

I’m a Sikh and I’m a professor. Yes, this affects me directly. Yes, I’m angry. Yes I’m scared. Yes, I’m sad.

Stop this. Someone just stop this. I have to write this down, I have to send it out. I don’t neccearily want to write about this. I want to be upset about this and do nothing but cry. But I’m not a cry baby. I’m a Sikh. Sikhs are saints and soldiers. No, I don’t religiously practice every single thing that followers of my faith believe in. I have my own interpretations and my own way. However, one thing I did learn from my religion: you have to fight against injustice. We are a peaceful group of people. Let me repeat that, all we want is peace. However we will not let others live without peace.

I learned at Sikh youth camps: You have to stand up. Our Sikh Gurus stood up for Hindus who were being converted to Islam back in the day. They fought so someone else would have the right to practice their religion. Guess what, it’s time we all fought for the right of Muslims to exist peacefully in this country.

And it’s about time everyone understands that men and women who wear turbans are Sikh, not Muslim.

Dearborn, Michigan, about forty-five minutes away from where I live is where the highest Middle Eastern population outside the Middle East lives. There will be an anti-Muslim rally tomorrow in Dearborn planned by the Open Carry Advocates. The gun lovers.

The word ‘hate’ should be eliminated from the dictionary. What sane person goes to a gathering where hate is being celebrated? Let me get this straight those that are protesting: a bunch of Muslims created things like ISIS because they hate people who are not Muslim, and you all hate back all of the Muslims in the world, because this group is violent. You want to take out your guns, because you have that right, and point them at a minority community of innocent people. And to further this you are so ignorant you might target the wrong community, and attack Sikhs by accident.

How dare you. How dare you take away our peace of mind. I was in New York on 9/11. What I learned from that experience was: you don’t let the threat of violence take over your life. You march on. We will march on. We will walk proudly with our turbans. You think you can scare a Sikh? Think again.

We will fight to protect Muslims so they have the right to practice their religion. We are not going to say don’t you dare come to the Gurudwara, but here is directions to the Mosque. This is about humanity. This is about all of us. If there is one man lying in chains anywhere, none of us are free.

And on that same note, you want your guns? No one is going to take away your guns, so don’t act like crazy fools and protest against the President of the United States. In fact the point is to check and make sure and double check that crazy fools don’t get a hold of guns. We just want to make it extremely difficult for guns to get in the wrong hands. If you are a regular person and want some guns for fun, NOBODY is taking that away from you. You heard me, stop being so paranoid. This is not about you.

It’s about feeling safe in a world that is crumbling all around us. What is going on in general? What is happening to people?

I still have faith. I have faith that people are inherently good. I actually believe this madness will get better. I have hope and belief that people will realize they are better off with peace than with mad chaos.

I don’t usually post things in the night, but I’m afraid something will happen tonight. I don’t want to think I did nothing and said nothing. I’m standing up in the only way I know how. Please be aware and help protect Sikhs and Muslims. Whoever you are, wherever you are, please try and learn about us. We are are good people. We would do the same for you.

nina

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 October 10th, 2015  
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Oct
09

Mamma’s House

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So I’m doing this online course to help me write for big blogs like the Huffington Post. I wrote a rough draft of an article, however I’m worried my mom won’t approve of it. She doesn’t read my blog, and if you know her, don’t show it to her.

In fact google recommended my blog to her in an email once, she read the first line of a quote from Audrey Hepburn, something about how she liked kissing…my mom was like, “What is this, you like kissing, kissing, kissing? Your relatives are reading this…have some decency!” She didn’t click on the link to my whole blog, I think she doesn’t want to know what I’m writing. I think she secretly knows she will disapprove of it.

When am I gonna stop being worried about what other people think? Especially my mother? I was going to use the word ‘motherfucker’ in my last post but I removed it because I was worried I might offend some people.

It offends me that I’m worried about that. I want to be free. I want this to be like a paid movie channel that doesn’t sensor f-bombs. I said the f-word in the car once when I was in college and my mom was about to back into another vehicle.

She later told my dad, and his response: “I never thought any daughter of mine would use such language.” My mother agreed. Well here I am, not only using it but publicly writing this in stone. The Internet is like stone right?

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My parents are still ruling my life and I will be fifty…someday. I told my students this story: when I was like twenty-five my mom sits me down, “Do you drink hard liquor?” Oh no, I thought, we are not having this conversation when I’m an adult. This is a conversation for teenagers. “Do you think anyone boy will marry you if you drink hard liquor?” I don’t think any boy is going to marry me for other reasons…

My mom is worried that I will one day write bad things about her. What would make her think a thing like that? Actually it’s only because I love my mother so fiercely that I fight with her. The fact is we are cut from the same cloth, we are very similar.

She thinks I’m crazy for being on Facebook, “You have no privacy with the Facepage, people can see all your business, I need my privacy,” she proclaims.  I told her that Facebook does not follow you around with a hidden camera. She still disagrees, however if I tell her there’s a picture of someone she knows on there, she has to immediately look at their entire profile. Little does she know I’m posting her gorgeous photos on ‘the Facepage.’

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My mother was and still is a beauty queen. But she never really talks about that, she talks about how she was smarter than the boys in her class and they would get mad at her. She was such a good listener as a doctor that patients would come to her for counseling. I was in astonishment that anyone would come to my mother for counseling. I’m in counseling because of her, or so I thought. Until it one day occurred to me that most of my problems are my own damn fault. If I’m still blaming my mother, I need to cut the umbilical chord.

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I remember when I was a little girl, I worshipped her as she held me wearing her beautiful silk sari’s. Now I’m too busy wondering if anyone will worship me to remember what it was like to purely loved by someone. I don’t know if there is a purer love than a mother and child have for each other.

Speaking of mother and child apparently my mom counseled young girls who were pregnant and stuff…who knew she was such an understanding woman?

I will tell you one thing. Someone in my family, tried to violate me once. My mom took my side completely. She was the most supportive woman I could have gone to with this issue. We cried together.

Yet despite this camaraderie we fight quite a bit. But there is one thing we can agree on though: Macy’s. We shop till we drop, we could spend hours, days there. She’s got a back problem but you should see the way she can lift three bags of clothes with one swoop. For my mom everything is personal, she knows all the sales ladies by name. “Macy’s keeps bugging me with these sale letters and these coupons for Star Rewards, they know I am a doctor,” she proclaims.

She doesn’t want everyone to know she is a doctor. She gives to a lot of charities, but she will tell me when I’m about to mail out the checks (yes she still uses checks) that I should not use her address label that says: M.D. “They bug me so much already, if they find out I’m a doctor they will think I’m rich!” She says the same thing about the Comcast bill, “Don’t use my M.D. labels or those bastards will raise the prices.” She’s not too far off about Comcast.

Speaking of T.V., my mom’s favorite shows are Indian soap operas. Let me tell you a little about these horrific shows. The sister in law tries to poison the mother in laws’s sister’s brother’s wife. Why? Only the gods know. “They are showing real life, there is a theme to this,” my mother will say. The theme is usually that Asha is pregnant with Ravi’s brother’s ex-wife’s cousin. Everyone is dressed up in these shows, from jewels to silk saris, from the crack of dawn until the middle of the night. They have never shown anyone in sweats or yoga pants (even though Indian’s invented yoga).

My mom is always dressed well. My mother has on occasion threatened to disown me when I have wanted to leave the house looking like a homeless person. Her big thing is that people should dress up nicely, even when they are going to the drug store. There are moments when I look so bad with my stained and ripped rags that she can’t believe I’m her daughter. She has secretly thrown away and threatened to burn ugly old clothes that I will wear over and over at home.

My mother is a religious woman, a true Sikh. This is where we have the most collisions. She doesn’t like that I respect my religion but don’t practice it the way that others do. I do my own ‘spirituality’ thing. However we have learned with time to respect each other’s beliefs. I don’t think she is a fundamentalist anymore and she doesn’t think I’m an atheist anymore. We are at peace.

Is my mom a good mother? She’s a great mother. I say this because the proof is in the pudding. She has two amazing daughters. Alright one flat out fantastic daughter (my sister) and well there’s me. I am who I am partly because of her. Good, bad or ugly: the apple does not fall too far from the tree.

nina

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 October 9th, 2015  
 ninakaur0  
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