03
FORWARD
Kismet is fate; the promise of something more for each of us. Fate trails silently behind us, whether that be in the form of fulfilling familial legacy, being stuck in a cycle of hope and despair, or succumbing to the embrace of a life gone by. Regardless of whether fate is something viewed with fear or with comfort, it is an inextricable aspect of our lives, especially as Asian-Americans. This edition of the Pavements Zine asks: where has destiny taken you, and to where will it lead?
CONTRIBUTORS
Nikita Adhikary (she/her)
Nini Hu (she/her)
Sindhu Pannuri (she/her)
Mausmi P. (she/her)
Vrinda Ram (she/her)
Madhu (she/her)
Hannah Bang (she/her)
Adeeba Mohammed (she/he/they)
“It may be said that no two children have exactly the same parents, in that the parenting they each receive may vary in highly significant ways. Whatever the hopes, wishes or intentions of the parent, the child does notexperiencetheparentdirectly:thechildexperiences the parenting. I have known two siblings to disagree vehementlyabouttheirfather’spersonalityduringtheir childhood. Neither has to be wrong if we understand that they did not receive the same fathering, which is what formed their experience of the father. I have even seen subtly but significantly different mothering given toapairofidenticaltwins.”
― Gabor Maté, Scattered: How Attention Deficit DisorderOriginatesandWhatYouCanDoAboutIt
Picture this – the eldest daughter in an immigrant South Asian family, spending a majority of her childhood in various apartment complexes, eventually accumulating more long distance friends than physical ones. Growing up, her family did not have secure finances. This meant that she could not afford braces when her teeth grew crooked, and could not participateinsportsshewasinterestedinoutsideofschool.Whatshewishedtobeherswas always“ours.”
Nowimagineheryoungersister,bornfouryearsand361daysafterher.Thefirstfewyears of her life, this younger sister grew up similarly, but quite quickly their experiences diverged. This younger sister spent a majority of her life in a house, in which she had her ownroomandprivacyearlyon.Shesetrootsinanewschoolatayoungage,leadingherto havemanyfriendsthatshewasn’tforcedtoleaveattheheightofherdevelopment.Shewas enrolled in ballet, gymnastics, and got braces as a teenager. Her disposition was completely different from her older sister’s – she was always more loud, more talkative, more argumentative.Thethingsthatmadetheoldersisterangry,shejustlaugheditoff.
If you grew up as the eldest daughter of a household, something about the differences in theselifeexperiencesmayresonatewithyou.Butwhataccountsforthishugediscrepancyin emotionalresponse?
The experience of being the eldest daughter in a family has become so universal that it’s attached to its own unique “syndrome” – the Eldest Daughter Syndrome. Although not an official diagnosis or mental illness, it highlights a unique set of traits that most of these daughters share – heightened level of responsibility, people-pleasing tendencies, anxiety, confusionwithidentity,andchallengesinforminghealthyrelationships.
You may have caught on by now that these hypotheticals I presented are drawn from my own life, and I admit that the Eldest Daughter Syndrome is something I have found myself relatingto.Iamfortunateenoughtobepartofafamilythatiswillingandabletosupportme in many different ways, but as I grew older, the pressures of being the oldest child chipped away at me. I felt like I was on the frontlines– always the first to be asked to set aside my timeandforfeitmysimpleaspirations,thefirsttobeblamedforanynegativeattributesthat mysisterdisplayedevenwhenIwasjustachildmyself.
So there I was, the distant daughter that wanted to leave home and travel and explore without any family burden, who eventually moved across the country to go to college in a place where nobody knew my name. Then who moved again to a different side of the country to pursue my masters. Barely calling home. Never wanting to tell my parents what I was up to, because a part of me felt that if I kept all of my experiences to myself, they couldn’t be judged or invalidated. I hate to say that the first time I felt my parents’ love was from a 1500 mile distance, because it wasn’t marked by arguments and thankless requests, even though I knew that was never their intention.
Then,therewasmysister,whograduatedsecondrankedinherclassandgotintotheuniversityI was rejected from. My sister, who called my parents consistently and always told them everything that was happening in her life, always pushing the boundary of things she could discuss. When I was twenty and there were any boys in the room, I would step out to take my parent’scalljustsotheywouldn’thearmalevoicesinthebackgroundandassumetheworst.My sister,attwenty,broughthomeherfirstboyfriendtomeetthefamily.
It’s a hilarious and bittersweet progression to witness how much things can change in a 5-year timespan. I was precocious as a child, with adults outside my family often remarking on how “mature” and “responsible” I was. But as I grow older, I feel myself regressing into some of the childish habits and behaviors I spurned when I was that age. I spent so many years in a cage of expectationandobediencethatInowwanttomakepeacewiththechildhoodversionofmethat feltIhadtobe“grown.”
To any eldest daughters out there – we’re in this together. Know that you are just a product of yourenvironment,andthisdoesnotmakeyoulesser.Oftentimes,theloveandappreciationfrom your family is left unspoken, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not there. However, it doesn't mean that you can’t desire something more. Your level of responsibility, your patience, your independence are your strengths, but do not let it consume you. And maybe you grew up precocioustoo–trytofindthatsenseoffunandwhimsyyouthoughtyouhadtorejectasakid.It maybringanewsenseoffulfillmenttoyourlifeexperiencesyoudidn’tknowyouneeded.
Curse a and A Blessing
Part 1
I saw a funeral in my mind
And it looked just like a wedding
There are people, too many people I do not know any of them
No marker no headstone no landmark
There are flowers though. It seems these people brought flowers
Flowers and hushed conversations and tears
Don’t they know I don’t like flowers?
Oh. Wait.
They do not know me.
I am no marker no headstone no landmark
I am a to do list item to be checked off A bouquet to buy
Words to be exchanged I am a calendar event
Imprisonment and shackles to ignore.
I am just Another.
I saw a funeral in my mind. It looked just like a wedding.
There were people, and they all pretended to care.
Black flowers white clothes white flowers black clothes
Black white black white it blurs to gray
Gray clouds gray sky gray face gray ring gray tomb
I saw my funeral in my mind. I thought it was my wedding.
Part 3
He awaits me. I see him now.
Translucent bones and translucent words
His carriage sleek and ever out of reach
I yearn for him, to understand him
To partake in his infinite Delights
Why must I stay on this mortal plane
When I could dance in his palace for Eternity
Twirl and twirl and twirl hysterical because I cannot stop
He is so tempting
Like bits of sugar stuck on a strawberry I want to reach out with my soul and engulf him
He is oh so tempting
He looks beautiful under this light. I cannot see him anymore.
Why do you dance out of my vision?
Why can I only see you through clouded thoughts and deluded minds?
Why do your hands raise to caress me and then drop What is holding you back?
You coward.
Come for me. I wish to be rid of this. Why do you taunt me? I am too weak for this. Do not taunt me.
Dear Death, I miss you.
Perhaps letting me see you and then disappearing, out of my grasp, is my Eternal punishment and your infinite Delight.
Thisisastilllifeofabrokenviolinthathasn’tbeen playedorpaidattentiontoinyears.Theviolinsitsasthe shadowsconsumethelastdyinglightofhopeithasto offerastheownerslowlyacceptstheirfateintoanother path.Abandoningonedreamfornoother. Musicorartisnevertobepursuedasacareerandis expectedtobeadream.However,itisencouragedtobe followedduringschoolyearsforthesakeofshowing universitiesyour“diversetalents”;buttalentisn’ttobe takenseriously.Dreamsarenevertobeconsidered,thus areleftaloneandthesparkiseventuallylost.“Maybein anotherlife,”iswhatwethinkasourwilltofightforour dreamsfades.---MausmiP.‘27
This painting represents the passing of stories through generations, symbolizing ancestral giudance.
In my family, it has been passed down that when a crow or bird appears before you, it is a sign that our ancestors are watching over us and assuring us we are on the right path to our destiny---kind of like how some people see 11:11, the angel number.
Vrinda Ram ‘27
Letter to the Immigrant Girl who Dreamed of a Nice House Madhu ‘28
It was hard for your family to get a house. The expense was undeniably a major factor to consider, but it was only the second. The rest was the fact that you were a stranger in this land; your documents deemed it so. You had been brought over when you were four, your life bundled into boxes. Every other summer you repacked them into suitcases when you flew to India to have your visa renewed. Each time, your parents prayed (with their old, old Tamil Bible, so worn that the leather cover has fallen off and all that remains is the flimsy cardboard backing) that you would be able to return. It became a cycle for you—try to live an American life, dreaming American dreams, only to be reminded that you are but a temporary visitor. You could not buy a house knowing each time you flew back could be your last.
But you got that house eventually. Kadavul nanachaa nadakkum , your father said, when he and your mother revealed the big news. You were fourteen, and it did not feel like yours for a long, long time. Your sister asked for a dog, and you did not believe your parents would get one. But then you got the dog too, and suddenly the house felt a little more like home. 5
Still, you could never quite let yourself grow comfortable there. Your days of American dreaming were over, and you were all too aware of how precarious your place here was. You remembered when your father had been laid off, and you and your mother and sister moved to India for six months until he got a new job. You had been too young to care about much more than missing a semester of fourth grade, but just old enough to realize the significance of the event—you had nearly lost everything. And in the summer before your senior year of high school, on a “vacation” with your family in India, you nearly lost everything again when a mistake in your visa application resulted in it being rejected altogether. You reapplied, of course, but the delay meant you would miss three weeks of school. You did make-up work for AP Calculus on the plane back to Houston. You were alone on the flight.
When you sat down to write this letter, you thought you would be sorrowful by the end of it. But you are here now, at the end, and all you feel is helpless rage. Will anything ever belong to you, immigrant girl? Will the soil beneath your feet ever welcome you? Will that green card ever be yours? How long will you call that house your parents scraped and saved for your home? You have had it for three years. Three years from now, you will turn 21 and be kicked off of your place in that endless line. Where will you call home then, immigrant girl? Do you have one?
6
if God wills it, it will happen
5 Children holding visas dependent on a parent’s working visa lose their permanent residency (“green card”) application upon turning 21 and must file for their own, separate application. The Congressional Research Service reports that clearing the total backlog of green card applications for Indian nationals could take up to 195 years.
What does God say? Does the writing on your forehead agree?
Sincerely,
Madhu
I UNDERSTAND WHY
VAN GOGH ATETHE PAINT
becausewhenthethoughtsstopdarkeningthetipsofmyfingers, andthewordsdiebeforethey’reborn,poeticmiscarriage, iloosenthebarrelofthepenfromtheinkchamber, drinktheliquidthere,likeacatwiththreedropsofblackmilk curiositykillsme,andthenotknowingiswhatcompelsthekeys ofthelaptoptoendupinmymouth,teethscrapingagainstall thelettersandthenumbersandtheexclamation,question,comma, theplasticscrapingmythroatintoribbonsofcut-offphrases
tearingintoshakespeareandwildeandlordewithapryof mylips,lettingthepaperabsorbintothesidesofmymouth, thewordstakingrootintherestofmybody,orsoihope asigorgeonanythingthatcouldmakemebetter,thatcould helpmedescribethefirstfourlayersofthesunrise, thelingeringtasteofthemelodyilosttwoyearsago, thewhorlsintheflowofthewindthatbrushedme, thesorenessinmymouthfromknowingi’llalwaysenduphere
adeebamohammed‘27
