If you found this journal by performing an internet search for my name, you should know that you have stumbled onto my personal journal. This journal is mostly locked--that is, it is only accessible to a selected group of LiveJournal users--with the exception of a few entries that I have chosen to keep public. I frequently lock public entries after they have been up for some time, so do not be surprised if you see posts disappear.

I recently earned my Ph.D. in English Literature and am currently serving as Acting Instructor at my doctoral institution--a position similar to a post-doctoral appointment--but many of my posts are about other things, including bento (a Japanese form of lunch packing that is great for packing nutritious and properly portioned meals), films I've seen, reflections on my anti-domestic violence work, and stories about my family. I'm always happy to add new LJ friends, so feel free to leave a comment; most entries are locked because I don't want people searching for me in professional contexts to end up with, say, a bunch of photos of my bento lunches (that's a little weird), not because I'm not interested in connecting with others who might share similar interests.

From Hanif Kureishi's The Black Album:

Could literature connect a generation in the same way? Some exceptional students would read hard books; most wouldn't, and they weren't fools.

Alfred Russel Wallace, interest in mesmerism after departure from idea of natural selection among humans. See Jackson and Weidman's Race, Racism, and Science (68).

...you momentarily freak out about not having done mid-quarter evaluations during the quarter you're on fellowship and thus not teaching.

I usually don't make public posts anymore, but I figure I should leave word since I'm about to skip town unexpectedly. I'll be in Texas to help my parents make a major move--I'm leaving Seattle tomorrow (Friday) and will be back Tuesday. I'll probably have spotty internet access since things will be in flux and smooth transfer of internet service is not guaranteed. Those who have the number can phone/text me on my cell. But work is temporarily on hold for now (except the work I will cram into my lengthy plane rides).

Have a good long weekend, folks.

Dear friends,

If you have not already heard, the cyclone in Bangladesh has caused some severe damage and loss of life: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12784349/. My family in Dhaka is without electricity or water now. I have yet to hear about family in other areas of the country who might also have been affected. Please keep my family in your prayers/thoughts. Also, if you can, you might consider donating to help people in the area. A friend of mine has listed some agencies that are taking donations here: http://khepa.livejournal.com/101984.html.

S.

A light breeze blows from the east, carrying along the scent of freshly mowed grass and that familiar after-rain clean smell. The gardener stands on the porch and looks carefully at his children. A lime tree nods its branches in the wind in greeting. Baba is here. Another lime tree, smaller and further away, drops a naughty curtsy like a girl caught in her play. Baba is here, Baba is here!

The gardener lets his gaze linger on each of these. His eyes are careful, steady. He does not smile. But they know not to look in his smile for love. They look at his hands.

The gardener has small, brown, well worn hands from years of work. The skin has started to shrivel and the strength does not stay in them long anymore. He has put on small gloves for small fingers to protect his skin from sharp twigs or unruly branches. It is not the lime trees he has come for today. It is the orange tree.

The orange tree is the teenager of the group. It cannot make up its mind whether to bear fruit yearly or every two years, and when it does decide to bear fruit, it persists in tossing its fruit on the ground at odd times despite Baba's warnings. Ma, the gardener's wife, comes to help. "We must pick the oranges early," the gardener grunts as he looks at the fruit at his feet, lying sullenly on the ground where tiny insects have started to bore their way into the succulent orange orbs.

"Let me get another basket," Ma says, her gentle laugh soothing the gardener as she skips inside the house. The bottom of her sari grazes the grass as she moves, her onyx hair kissed with gray gently swaying in the wind. Small lime tree gives another curtsy. Ma is here! Ma is here!

The gardener does his work seriously, focusing on each orange as he picks it carefully and rests it softly onto the pile in the basket Ma has brought from inside. He has watered the tree faithfully night after night, and squinted at its upward reaching branches in the scorching heat. He has thoughtfully circled that strange, rebellious bush, staying far away for it to have its own space to grow, yet remaining close enough to protect, nurture, and love.

After picking the oranges and bringing them all inside, the gardener and his wife sit inside the cheerful kitchen with its cherry wood table and its bright yellow patterned wallpaper. Large oranges cover every available surface. The countertops, the dining table, the insides of pots, and even the top of the stove are completely canvassed with those orange balls. "Dekho," the gardener says thoughtfully, the tip of the index finger of a now ungloved right hand resting on his lip, "we have to save some for them when they come home. They will eat them."

Ma nods. "They will eat them. It is for them."

The gardener and his wife came to America in 1980. They sacrificed the comfort of their families, the proximity of familiar surroundings and understanding friends, the safety of home, and many more unspeakable things to raise their son and their daughter with love. Naughty, playful, sometimes rebellious, sometimes needing their own space, the two children grew up and left home. The gardener and his wife continued to give everything they had for their children. They gave money, books, letters, food. Tears, admonishments, cautionary tales, advice, and pride. Wisdom, knowledge, and the best kind of love. They gave and they gave until it seemed as though it was impossible to give anything else in this world.

Until one day, their son and daughter came home for a visit and found eighty oranges stored in the refrigerator, awaiting their arrival.

"Eighty!" the daughter laughed. "Dad, what will we do with eighty oranges! We can't eat them all!"

"Dad, I'm not sure we can eat all of these," her brother said, his mouth full of his fourth orange of the day. Coincidentally, he wore an orange shirt, and the daughter teased that he was turning into an orange.

The gardener gave his daughter that steady, careful look. "You eat what you can. We want to give them to you."

And she understood. In the end, when she took four of the largest oranges with her to the city far, far away, she understood. Sitting alone one night in her lamp lit apartment, thinking of the kind faces and soothing voices of the gardener and his wife, she took a bite of her first slice of orange since she'd been home.

Baba is here. Ma is here.