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Sometimes when I drink more than one-and-half cocktails, I look at myself in the restroom’s mirror and see my reflection of grey hair and wrinkle eyes and a wide grinning mouth, I want to drunk dial, my mother. I want to tell her that look-look Mom the way my life turned out. I am not dead. Or a drug addict lying in a ditch somewhere. I am not a maidservant living in slums. I am normal. I don’t wear your or Dad’s hand-me-downs. I am beautiful here. I am free of your emotional put-me-downs and you will never get to beat me again.

But I am too afraid of karma to ever make that phone call.

Sometimes when I am on a hike and have climbed a hill for half an hour, I look at the vastness of rolling mountains and natural lakes, I want to take a selfie and send it to my father. I want to write to him, Dad you and your evilness are so insignificant in comparison. I want to write that Dad this beauty healed all the emotional trauma you put on me. That in spite of twenty-seven years of thrashings from you, now I am physically strong to climb this hill. That I not super-rich as your younger daughter, but I am the most educated person in our entire family and extended family.

But I don’t say anything, because my surrounding calm me.

My past seems so insignificant compared to this. SF Bay in the background from Coyote Hills Regional Park.

Somedays after nightmarish nights, I want to email the link to this blog and my stories to my younger sister. I want to send her my published stories so she knows that I shared my opinions about her with the entire world. I want her to know the way I think of her. I want her to realize the damage of her actions. She didn’t beat me like Mom and Dad, but she handed them the slippers, wooden bats, leather belts to use on me. In my mind, I see her reading my email and stories, then calling and running to my parents, followed by crying, and saying, “Sheena is being mean to me.” As I live in a different continent, my parents can’t come here and beat me. They wouldn’t call me, as that will cost them money. So to avenge my sister, my father will send me shitty emails like he wrote in the past. I am okay with that.

But I will never send her my stories, that will make me a show-off.

Sometimes I want to call or email all the assholes I encountered, and tell them my opinions of their asshole-ness. One made me jump through hoops because he was going to give me feedback on my stories. He summarized my life and informed me about it. As if I needed to print all my work, keep the printouts outside his door, and sit across him while he ate his dinner, to know that. I have a therapist for that analysis.

One told me that I can’t write “good American English,” because I studied in India. Seriously, probably she never read her own writing. Even reality-TV people have best sellers, so I am sure my writing is just fine.

I had to find this, from that day. This is not my best picture, but I am sure it is a good look.

One said I can never pronounce Spanish because I grew up in India. This was a Ph.D. student at Berkeley, who was teaching UCBE Spanish language class. She should never teach. At least I have the courage to try to learn a new language. I doubt she will ever try to learn Hindi.

One woman-friend who might read this blog did the unthinkable. Once, I wore a fitting dress, ate a big salad, and had the after meal bloat. I was body conscience. She said, “It is not a good look.” I want to tell her that her trying too hard to look half her age by wearing tight clothes, pushup bras to her chin, and darkening her hair, is actually not a good look.

But I never said anything to any of these people. Because I don’t want to become an asshole like them. I came across many more idiots.

Tonight, I left like venting out some of my frustrations about the selected few.

 

 

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