Sometimes, you have to stand back and let people and countries take care of themselves.

I don’t think allowing a person or a nation to heal themselves is paramount to apathy or weakness.

A delayed or non-existent intervention is not just a matter of self preservation for the United States.

It’s also a matter of mutual respect.  In some ways, not interfering illustrates that we have faith in the people of Iran to sort their own matters out in the manner of their choosing… in the way that they think is best for them. Why should we shield them from the trials by fire that a people must endure in order to appreciate truly their right to self rule and governance?

These are a people that have endured thousands of years.  I believe they can work this out.

The United States, as a nation, should afford them that dignity.  And, of course, fervently hope that their hopes and ours converge in ways that minimizes despair, destruction and chaos. As the situation changes, we can always reevaluate.

But history, especially with regards to this nation, teaches us that our interventions in their affairs have not always been noble and that they have little reason to trust our government’s motives.  Even a good choice that may be made as a direct result of our intervention would most likely be questioned to the point of being ineffective.

Watching, in my opinion, is the right thing to do at this moment.

But, it doesn’t mean we don’t see.

I see.  I feel for them.  I’m sure we all do.  And we should let them know.

And, I’m proud of them.  Well, some of them, anyway.  Obviously not the ones who are acting like petulant children who refuse to share their toys.  And who shoot people who disagree with them.

Additionally?  I think we should all stop calling New Jersey the Garden State and start referring to it as Bon Jovi Land.

Remember? I’m having a baby.  A bullet post for your reading pleasure.

• It hit me (again) the other day that I’m having a boy.  Obvious differences aside, I’ve started evaluating what that’s going to mean on a more general level, not just in terms of how he will act.  But, also, in terms of how it will change the kind of mother I am.  I’m wondering how many of the changes will be fair, and how many of them will be prompted by pure sexism.
• I am nowhere near as prepared for this baby’s arrival as I was for N.  I still have to wash and fold clothes.  Assemble a crib.  Buy a few things.  Pack a hospital bag.  Arrange the room where he will sleep.  And you’d think that this laundry list of items would create a sense of urgency.  But, no.  It simply makes me want to take a nap.
• Braxton Hicks.  Also known as false labor?  Also known as, “Oh, great, as if it’s not going to be enough to actually have to go through the real thing.  Let’s practice for what seems like fifty times a day.”
• My SIL’s baby shower is in four weeks at my place.  Is it wrong that my only goal right now is not to have this baby before then?
• I feel huge.  I can’t get up without grunting.  And, yes, I know I’m pregnant and blah, blah, blah.  But, I’ve always held this irrational belief that when you start to have to grunt when you get up, it’s the same as saying goodbye to the last vestiges of your youth.
• I keep waking up every two to three hours.  And I can’t get to sleep. The fact that my body seems to be undergoing preparation for the fact that I won’t be getting a full night sleep for the next several months is fairly miraculous.  And extremely annoying.
• And, like last time, in classic NYCWD and LeSombre style, this last bullet is for the next person that says, “Oh, just five weeks?  That’s right around the corner, isn’t it?”

I was seven, maybe eight?

I didn’t own cassettes.  Genius child that I was, I was into reading, playing outside and begging my parents for cable.

We were sitting in my uncle’s living room in Lahore (Pakistan) and my cousin and I were trying desperately to find something in common with one another.  I was there for the summer.  We were stuck with each other, after all.

He was a boy.  I was a girl.  He was Pakistani and I was American.  He was 11 and I was 8.

So far, not so good.

His eyes lit up, “Do you like Michael Jackson?”

“Sure,” I said.

He smiled and ran to his room.  He entered the room with a battered cassette tape in one hand and a little red boom box in the other.  He  popped in the cassette.  “Billie Jean” blared from the grimy speakers.

We sat and listened and smiled.  “What is he saying?”  my cousin asked.

“Ummm, he’s saying that Billie Jean isn’t his girlfriend.  That she’s just someone he knows.  But nobody listens and everyone keeps saying she is.”

“Ohhh,”  he said in deep thought.  And, then, we both giggled.  Because, we were kids and you’re supposed to giggle at that sort of thing.  “Do you have this cassette at home, in America?”

“No.”

“What cassettes do you have?”

“I don’t have cassettes.”  He raised his eyebrows in a way that clearly indicated that this surprised him.  After all, American kids were supposed to have everything, right?

I smiled feeling a little embarrassed at my complete lack of coolness.

“OK, then”  he stopped the tape player and carelessly tossed the cassette towards me.  “You can have this one, then.”

I held it in my hands and felt a surge of excitement.  For some reason, we didn’t have a problem coming up with things to talk about for the rest of the summer.

Later that evening, I sat in the guest room of my uncle’s house and listened to this little piece of America that my Pakistani cousin had given me earlier that day.  It was the beginning of something deep.  Something that makes me smile every time I hear “Thriller” or “P.Y.T.”  When I got back to the States, I listened to the tape with my brother and we memorized all the songs.

After that summer, I scrimped and saved every nickel I got so that I could go out and buy more music like this.  No matter how vacuous or how inane pop music became, I couldn’t help myself.  I loved and still love pop music.  Even in the 90s, when we all wore flannel and contemplated the darkness of the journey between late adolescence and adulthood, nobody changed the station if a good 80s pop song was on.

Pop music.  It was an escape.  It was lightness in a world that can often be a little too dark.  It was joy in a world that could be a little too painful.

It was my piece of American poetry.  And it began with a little bit of Michael.

Michael Jackson was undoubtedly a flawed man.  Undoubtedly.  If the allegations that had been brought up in the past regarding his relationship with children are even remotely true, his musical genius doesn’t excuse that depravity. He was a victim of his own genius and a prisoner of his own fame in a lot of ways.

Regardless, though, in my mind I don’t remember Michael Jackson as the American pop icon or accused pedophile.

To me, Michael Jackson is a cassette tape that someone who started off as a stranger and became a brother handed to me in an act of friendship almost 25 years ago.

He’s the commonality in a conversation that Tariq and I, who grew up on opposite sides of the world, share in our childhoods.

He’s one of those links that, because of his music’s ability to transcend borders and language, binds Americans to everyone else.

He’s our piece of American poetry.

I’d also like to take a moment to acknowledge the death of the lovely Farrah Fawcett who taught those of us born before 1980 the special and unforgettable brand of American beautiful that can be achieved by a large round brush, a hair dryer and massive quantities of hair spray.

Obviously, I’ve made it abundantly clear that this month was “Parent/In-Law Sycophant Month” here on my blog.  As evidenced by these posts.

Is it fair to assume that we can dispense with the pleasantries, then?

Letting the familial piety gene ravage through your life unabated and unchecked promises to wreak utter devastation in the best of circumstances.

For example, say you have a child.  She’s a sweet, darling, obedient little girl who only requires a time out every six to eight weeks.  This child under the regime of grandparents will become a monster.

The kind of monster that, if you were Catholic, would require you to cross yourself and say a couple of rosaries before you dared to tell her she couldn’t have that fifth brownie for breakfast.

And why has she had five brownies for breakfast?

Because between Super Duper Guilt Inducing Saudi Grandma and Her Royal Alpha Femaleness American Grandma, your self righteous declarations of how sugar is actually bad for a three year old when consumed as if it were oxygen are completely futile.

My mother, the doctor, actually told me that brownies are good for my child because they have milk and eggs in them.

Honestly?  I think she should get her license revoked for that.

You won’t believe what happened last week.  I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there myself.

I noticed that my daughter had gone into the pantry and shut the door.  I wasn’t completely surprised by this, as she’s done this on many occasions.  Usually, I’ll find her in there rearranging the labels on the shelves and sorting the items accordingly.  Because she is perfect and wonderful.   Just.  Like.  Me.

Anyway, I assumed it was business as usual, but that little helicopter mom voice in me asked, “What if she’s scaling the pantry shelves in an ill thought out King Kong re-enactment?”  Visions of my child eating her way out of a mountain of Teddy Grahams and Oreo cookies prompted me to check on her immediately.

I opened the pantry door and looked on in horror as the three year old child before me quickly shoved handfuls of plain sugar into her mouth.  Sugar, i.e., crack rock for a three year old.

Despite my take charge aggressive nature, I stood there.  Completely frozen.

Because, first of all, what the hell?

And, second, it was seriously the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

But, no.  It was wrong.  Oh, so very wrong.

What happened next?  Was even more incredibly wrong.

She looked at me and said, “Mama, I’m busy.  Get.  Out.”

You’re busy?!

Eating sugar?!!

With your bare hands?!!!

DID SHE JUST TELL ME TO GET OUT?!!!!

I steeled myself for the ice cold water that would have to pulse through my veins in order to administer what would most likely go down in history as the mother of all time outs.

And, then.  From around the corner, she appeared.

Saudi Grandma.

“OHMYGAAAAAWWWWD-SOOOOSWEET-SHE-IS-SO-CUTE-HOW-CLEVER-MY-DARLING-MY-SWEEETHEART…”

It all happened so fast.

One minute I’m preparing to become the swift hand of justice.  And the next?  I’m the fun blasting fuzz at a fraternity kegger.

Approximately forty five million thoughts regarding accountability and consequences and blah-di-parenting-books-blah went through my head in those twenty seconds, but all that seemed to make sense was one petty little conclusion.

There is no way I’m going down as the bad guy here.

So.

I smiled really big and scooped her up in my arms and said really loud, “AWWW-THAT-IS-SOO-SWEET-YOU-ARE-A-CLEVER-LITTLE-ONE!!” I hugged my cute, clever, sweetheart really tight and walked slowly past Saudi Grandma who beamed at my daughter as I walked past.

I looked into my daughter’s eyes, then put my cheek next to her sweet little face.  And then, I lowered my voice to the point where only my daughter and dogs could hear it and whispered through clenched teeth, “And if I ever catch you doing that again, you are going to be get a super bad time out.”

Apparently, passive aggressive parenting is totally the Super Duper Grandma kryptonite.

More importantly, does anyone know what the nuance that distinguishes a regular time out from a “super bad” one is going to be?

I sure don’t.

An Anti-Drama Precaution:  In case anyone is wondering, this post was not written as a reaction to this post. In fact, it was sort of inspired by this one.

I’m going to ask you to approach this post the way I approach most things… by focusing on intent.

I’m not prepared to engage in long defenses of what I’m about to write here because most of it is grounded in emotion.  The subject is sensitive, not just for me, but for a lot of people.

I don’t mind terrorist jokes.  I think they’re funny.  Because I’m not a terrorist, and I think they’re idiots.

I don’t mind jokes about being “brown,” accents, 7/11s or 9/11, being good at math (or not) or having overly demanding parents.  As long as the jokes are funny, humor wins every single time in my book.

I don’t even mind jokes about my religion versus your religion because as far as I’m concerned, I practice a religion that is 1400 years strong and my faith in it is not going to be diminished by humor or stereotypes.

However.  I’m not fond of feeling like a “token” Muslim or Pakistani-American.

You know, the friend that’s brought up every single time someone talks about the Middle East, Pakistan or Islam.

Maybe I bring up multiculturalism so much that people miss out on the fact that I am mostly American.  No.  Make that all-American.  Yes, I am all American.  Like apple pie.

Perhaps I haven’t been clear.  My affinity and knowledge of India and Pakistan is through association and travel.

I have never lived in India, Pakistan or the Middle East.  I have never bought groceries, driven a car, hailed a rickshaw or lived anything remotely resembling a real life there.

Yes, I have been to those places many times.  I may even know particular places intimately, but for the most part?  I’m a visiting American when I’m there.  I think people confuse my passionate interest in India, Pakistan and the Middle East with a pseudo-first hand expertise and, to some degree, imbue me with representativeness on the culture, politics and religion of those regions.

So, a reminder.  I am an American who is informed by my parent’s heritage.

I’m not a fan of the phrase Pakistani-American. Because, in my mind, I am an American first.  I have a deep love for Pakistan because of my heritage, but it’s a footnote in my identity.  That is a stand that I take regarding my identity and one that makes a lot of immigrants understandably uncomfortable.

People often forget that there’s a difference between asking me a question about my own personal experience of a culture and expecting me to proselytize on the experience of an entire region as though I were from there.

If I exuberantly answer a question like, “How has political Islam impacted the state of U.S. foreign relations with Pakistan?” you should know that I can answer this question because I am well read, educated and informed on the subject.  My ability to discuss this matter doesn’t stem from my heritage.

Yes, one might argue that my interest stems from my heritage.  And one would be right about that, but one would be missing the point entirely.  Because there are lots of Pakistani people in the world that have no idea what the term “political Islam” means or nor do they care about what that might have to do with American relations.

Like most of you, I was born and brought up in the United States.  I watched the same television shows, went to the same schools, read the same books, and, for the most part, ate the same food.  When someone chooses to define me in complete context to my parent’s heritage, it makes me feel like a little badge that can be worn on their arm that says “Look, I’m culturally diverse.  Aren’t I awesome?”

And, besides, if you want to get all racial up in here, for the most part, my views and outlook on life is far more “white” than it is “brown.”  Annd, a quick survey of my closest friends will reveal a 3:1 ratio in favor of white people. Furthermore, I  believe in straight lines, not beating your children, waiting at traffic lights and happily paying the asking price for goods and services.  It doesn’t get much more “non-brown” than that.

(See what I did there?  I got offensive, but it was funny).

I know this may be difficult to navigate.  Because I’m not being totally clear on what exactly bothers me.

It may very well be that I’m not entirely clear on what bothers me.

How about this?

How Not to Make Faiqa Feel Like Your Token Brown Friend:  A Quick Guide

Note: These are my opinions.  I’m not a brown woman demagogue.  If you want to know how other Muslim Pakistani American women married to Indian men raised in Saudi Arabia feel about this stuff, go ask them.

• Of course, I believe in being racially and culturally sensitive.  I just don’t believe in assuming that every black, brown or white person should automatically identify with the broader experiences of their race/culture.  I grew up in a town with two other Pakistani families.  My first generation experience is completely different than a male Pakistani-American who grew up in Jackson Heights, NY.  The whole spirit of multiculturalism is to avoid boxing people in, and I think a lot of people miss that point.

• I do feel slightly annoyed when people say things to the effect of, “This is Faiqa, my Pakistani American friend” when it is out of context.  I find this annoying because, it’s like saying, “Hi, this is my friend Vanessa, she’s black.”  Or “This is my friend John, he’s gay.”  Do I really have to explain why this is annoying?

• I know this seems hypocritical, but being of Pakistani heritage is a part of my personal identity.  I think it’s acceptable for me to choose when to bring it up and when to dismiss it.  I think that right belongs to me alone.

• I also felt highly annoyed at teachers and professors who brought up Islam, women in Islam, the veil,  Pakistan, the Middle East, beheadings, floggings, terrorism or 9/11 as side bars and then asked just me what I thought about those subjects.  I understand that this was, on the part of the professors, an attempt to add perspective and diversity to their classroom.  But, you know what?  It.  Is.  Lazy.  If a professor wants to add diversity to their class, they need to formulate a lesson plan that does so.  Not treat me like their token ambassador to the white man.  If I have something to add to their lesson, I will.

• No, I am not an angry brown woman.  I understand that people who address that I have a heritage different from their own are open minded and highly evolved people.

• I just want to be treated like a person.  A person.  Not a demographic.  Not a check in someone’s little crib sheet of diversity.  If you are of European descent, I seldom consider that you are “white” when talking to or about you.   OK, except for this one time when I went to lunch with my friends at an Irish restaurant.  That place felt really “white.”  Or, no, actually, I felt really “brown.”  But, I digress. What I mean is, I hope that you don’t allow my heritage to color your perceptions of every interaction between us, either.  I would like it to be treated as a footnote.  Not an introduction, summary, abstract and bibliography.

• Are there any Japanese, Malaysian, or Indonesian people reading this blog?  I just checked my crib sheet and found I hadn’t checked those boxes, yet.  How does one go their entire lives without making a single Japanese friend?

See, I did offensive-funny again.  Come on.  It was a little funny.

What about you?  Are there labels that accurately describe you, but that you find are used a little too often for your comfort?  How do you deal with it?  Do you (also) write passive aggressive blog posts hoping people will catch on?