On the Importance of Satirical Writing

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Satire has been a powerful tool for (political) artists to point out the fallacies in past political regimes without necessarily pointing fingers, especially in oppressive regimes. This has been done by presenting current events and issues in often absurd, even hilarious, forms. Many comedians and writers are experts in poking holes into such political messages by making parallels to these messages and exaggerating the message to show its obvious flaws.  Because satire uses comedy and entertains its viewers/readers, the message is often able to reach a wide audience and protect its creator from any liabilities. In the past, any anti-government message was reason enough for imprisonment and many poets, writers, and artists were jailed for writing anti-government propaganda.

In the United States, today, however, there is little need to write obscurely because of our  “natural” rights to free speech and our freedom to think independently about our elected government and world leaders. Everyone today can write a straightforward message on any social platform about their thoughts and ideas of today, but many people who do exercise the freedom to express their ideas are put down and disrespected or simply ignored. It is wholly unproductive to spend so much time and energy to write into the world wide web only for the message to go unnoticed. Straightforward writing is still not working. In addition, media outlets are increasingly focusing their energies on news that isn’t necessarily relevant to the future success of this country and that, as a result, derails the rest of the nation from being educated about current events that are actually vital to the future success of the country and the global economy.

Though we no longer have restrictions placed on our artistic mediums or the messages we send out into the world, Satire is more important today than ever before– finding outlets in literature, television, the internet, comics, and cartoons. Messages that would have been ignored or punished in the past are now reaching millions of people in satirical form and making a real difference. It may be the most powerful tool that critics have to get their opinions out into the world.


Impermanent Thoughts

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For the last few years, I have been toying with this idea of impermanence. The idea of death and loss, and then, the acceptance of this impermanence of life.  I’ve always had a strange affinity for danger. As with all stories of death and its derivatives. It started small: dipping my fingers into candle wax, taking my seatbelt off a few minutes early to feel the last three bumps as the car comes to a full stop. The danger was in the small things, the things I could get away with. Balancing on a crack along an endless sidewalk like a hovering, with two arms stretched wide, on the thin pavements carved in between roads, island gardens, as if it were a tightrope, and I, a performer. Otherwise, the danger was in walking on, sometimes in the bike lane, and feeling the cars rush by, death ruffling its clothes against my skin. In keeping my eyes open during roller coaster rides. Or in making eye contact with someone, and allowing myself to be seen. Because sometimes, the simple act of looking back, unflinching, insecurities and all bumbling in the background— that’s danger.

That danger was empowering, and I embraced it. It was a way for me to take control of my life: of where I walked, who I spent my time with, and what I did with my time and my body. It seemed dangerous, then, for an immigrant girl, an indian-american, to walk smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk, in the middle of things. Girls, especially girls from the east, were known to be shy and quiet, supposed to be submissive. And so, it was a power statement—a loudness— to walk on, unafraid. One that I had learned from a young african american gentleman or a book he must have written, an autobiography, to walk fiercely on, in one straight path. Don’t react to where others are, he said. Don’t step to the side for somebody else to pass. These words mattered to me somehow. I was a quiet girl except for these moments. And so, I held on to these dangers.

I did not then have the luxury of opinions. I did not think I had the right to voice my opinions, political or otherwise. I was not African American. I was not Muslim. I was not Jewish. All of whose people shared in a collective struggle against racism. Indians, on the other hand, had a fairly brief history and were only talked about offhandedly, in discussion of curry or poor hygiene or funny accents. I always had to distinguish myself from this stereotype, felt compelled to tell people but I don’t eat curry. I’m different. I was in a state of constant self-doubt of how I smelled and looked and acted in front of others, always conscious of how I was being perceived. Why is he at such distance? Does my breath stink? Or is it just something in the brown of my skin that seems to push away everyone? I wanted to tell them that brown isn’t contagious. It isn’t something you can catch, like a cold. I imagine that’s how people with Aids felt, too, back when our understanding of the disease was minimal and people were afraid to touch and homosexuality was not yet established as anything other than taboo. I, too, was oppressed. Like the Jews. Like the Blacks. Like the Muslims. Like the homosexuals. Like anyone, like everyone, I just wanted to feel human, complete. But back then, I was still other, less than. A woman.

I do not know why I was so ashamed of being Indian— an Indian woman. Of course, then, I hadn’t thought of my rejection of Indian culture as shame— just a push against those first impressions. I didn’t want people to look at me with the smug satisfaction in their eyes like they know me because they had an indian girl in their first grade class and she was a bitch. In fact, the first thing I told everyone I met was that I was born in Russia, a small lie, but that was enough to bring people to take a second look, enough to push people to think about me one step further than that indian girl with extremely long hair. Another indian girl with really, really long hair. How long did it take you grow your hair out? Can I touch it? Why do you always oil and braid your hair? Is this part of your religion? I especially hated that question. It was as though all of my decisions, my intentional carefully-thought-out decisions— to be vegetarian, to grow my hair out, to hold onto culture and tradition and eastern values— were not decisions at all, but something I did just because I was raised that way and knew no other way of life. I don’t think people realized that my parents were not oppressive and old-fashioned and sure, they set rules for me to keep me focused on my studies and to keep me safe, but I had choices— for my career and for my life. And perhaps that is how I finally grew outspoken. Telling these small lies to passer-by’s that could never be fact checked, never bringing someone close into my life, close enough to see past my lies. These dangers mattered so much to me, these tiny pushes towards something more. Not just another Indian girl.

And then one day, I found myself  preparing to jump off a fifty foot cliff and thinking, this is it. Goodbye. And I really thought I was not going to make it out alive even as I saw the kids climb out one by one with an injured arm or a sore back from the shallow water underneath. I really believed it, that I was going to die right then. And I was okay with it. You can never feel as alive as in the moments you risk losing everything. What was I thinking?

One day speaking in front of a classroom, teaching. Then, sometime later, and more recently, writing to a man in prison through a nondescript and poorly funded website, writeaprisoner.com. It was a fascinating place for me. There were pages upon pages of prisoners listed, of profiles to scroll through, men and women of all ages and races, all looking to find a soulmate, an intimate partner. I had no intention of going through with any such intimate interactions as I knew how many such interactions could result. Still, I wanted to challenge my comfort zones, to amp up the danger. For me, it was simply an attempt to complicate my perception of criminals. To allow someone outside of my normal means of communication an intimacy that I grant persons I meet or come across out on the streets or in my setting, and to acknowledge their existence and their humanity. Why I chose a murderer to connect with and reach out to, I still don’t exactly comprehend. Was it to amp up the danger? Or because I felt murder was an indisputable moral offense whereas shoplifting and petty thefts as more morally ambiguous and therefore easier to empathize. I wanted to feel an empathy for the worst of the worst. I was testing out what it meant to love and what love meant to me. I was thinking about the ambiguity of love, of loving through circumstance, above circumstance. Unconditional love.

I understood, as I continue to do so, that I lived a privileged life, free of many human struggles and I wanted to understand a person’s motives for committing such a crime, something so easily viewed as bad or wrong. But especially, I wanted to see them as more than just a criminal. Just as I wanted people to see me as more than just an indian girl, a stereotype. It was my attempt to humanize someone, a man, who others might look down upon or not want to sympathize/empathize with. That was my goal. It was why I wrote. It was the why to many things: the need to create complexity, a push against preliminary judgements. And after that, it was an attempt to justify my intense love for the world, to explain why was it so easy for me to take this risky step of reaching out, of why I was so generous with my love.

But even while setting in stone all these tiny rebellions, I was afraid. I was afraid of nearly everything I ventured out to do— even afraid of being so alive because I wasn’t ready for it all to one day come to an end. To receive the short end of a great adventure. I thought what would happen fifty years from now? How would I feel anything if I felt everything now? I thought of feeling as something that diminished over time. And to an extent, I was correct. Nothing quite compared to my first feeling of love or waiting by the sidelines for my first martial arts fight or my first experience swimming (drowning, really). And I reluctantly grew apathetic to certain conditions: sights of homeless people with tents set up for the rainy days, ambulances and wrecked cars huddled along the sides of freeways. I was afraid to feel and I was afraid of losing feeling. At some point, I, in my naivety had thought, that if I planned it all right, I would just hit a giant wall one day and lose all these emotions. It was mostly just love which pained me the greatest. I did not ever dislike a person so greatly or feel a relationship so strained or burdened as to resort to a hate. If I ever did hate, it was always underlined by a souring love.

As for love, I was never cautious with it. I thought the more love I gave out early on in my life, the faster I would be able to run out of it. Just stop feeling it entirely. If only that were true. How after crying at my grandfather’s funeral, afterwards I would have found great peace in not being able to feel any more, in the loss of emotions. But instead I felt shame for the briefness of my pain, of his absence, which I felt little of because of our brief exchanges. The grief was short-lived that day, but later on, I found that even when I thought I could not possibly feel more deeply or when I could not be more passionate, my body would surprise me. We continued to feel his loss days after, years after his burial. I found these feelings to be a privilege as well as a great burden. Still, had I been given the chance, I would continue to seek feeling, this aching pain that continues to remind me that I am alive and of those who are no longer.

Are you actually a good listener?

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Doggie is listeningListening seems simple enough, but most people are more concerned with talking than listening. Why?

Talking makes people feel in control, but do you ever do something embarrassing or say something embarrassing and keep talking to cover it up and then, feel even more embarrassed?

Here’s how to become better listeners…

1. Don’t Multitask.

There are a million things to do every day, but when you are in a conversation with someone, you should leave your phones and your stray thoughts out. Studies show that multitasking during conversations limits our capacity to retain information, so the next time you are talking to someone, take out your earbuds, stop playing angry birds, and really listen.

 2. Keep an open mind. 

Not everyone you talk to will have the same beliefs and ideals that you hold, but everyone has something to teach you. Keep your judgements out when you are in a conversation, and I promise you will come out of the conversation having learned twice as much about yourself and the person who engaged you in conversation.

  3. Always assume you have something to learn.

Everyone you talk to has something to teach, you just have to be willing to listen.

 4. Use open questions.

We all need to reconnect with our childhood selves and find the wonder in asking the right questions again. Use the five W’s: Who, what, where, when, and Why. What was that like? How did that make you feel? Don’t just ask yes or no questions. Make them think.

5.  Don’t listen with the intent of replying.

Instead, listen with the intent of understanding. Remove your ego from the conversation and you’ll start to notice how much more  you take away from the conversation. If someone is talking, don’t make it about you. Don’t try to put in your two cents to the conversation by cutting someone else off. You don’t have to prove your worth or that you have suffered just as much as them. Just listen.

6. Don’t keep repeating yourself.

Conversations should be interesting, so mix it up. If you find that you’re just going in circles and saying the same things over and over again, change the topic.

7. Stay out of the details unless someone asks.

Chances are that if you are very knowledgeable in a given topic, you will want to drone on and on about it. It’s okay. It means you are passionate, but (and I apologize for being the one to tell you this) not everyone will want to hear it. People don’t want to know the fine print of any topic. They want to be told a story, something quick and simple that leaves a lasting impression. To keep them engaged, you have to hold the details to a minimum.


So are you actually a good listener?

If not, start listening to the world around you. You will be amazed at how much more the world has to offer.