You Can Go Back Home Again, But Not For Good

Just as soon as I touched down at O'Hare, hopped the Van Galder bus to Rockford, and settled into my bedroom, I heard the news. Rockford, Illinois: 9th most dangerous city in America. Yes, I had grown accustomed to Rockford's annual appearance on the "Worst Places to Live in America," lists but I hadn't realized just how crime ridden Rockford has become.

For those friends of mine in Boston who think of Rockford as the hometown of the Peaches, the team from A League of Their Own, we are far from our World War II-era glory. Once the former "Screw Capitol of the World," a hub for manufacturing, we now boast one of the highest unemployment rates in the country and kids are getting shot at our movie theater. Not exactly good times.

Rockford is my home. It's in my DNA. Even transplanted across the country, my Midwestern mentality is unshakable. I prefer honest, open, hard working people to the entitled and pretentious. I respect self-made individuals. I prefer low maintenance to ostentatious. I am loyal to my sports teams. I enjoy dousing everything in nacho cheese.

There are many things I love about my hometown: my family lives here, my friends (the ones who have witnessed my entire development and still love me), its proximity to two of my favorite cities: Chicago and Madison.

But despite all these things, I can't allow myself to get too comfortable here. Yes, this is my home. It always will be. And I will always treasure my visits here. But I can't settle here again. I can't support a city where adoption services are shut down (displacing 300 kids) just because gay couples are allowed to adopt in the state. And while my education did me fine, I could not put my potential future children through the dysfunctional Rockford School District system.

Love ya Rocktown, but sooner or later, I've got to leave you behind.

This is a Tribute

Yesterday, I received a call that broke my heart: my grandfather had passed away. It was my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary.

My ajja, Umesh Sanadi, was essentially the patriarch of my mother's family. After his father died and two of his brothers joined the British forces in World War II, and his older brother moved to the States, he became the provider. He managed the family estate. And he treated his many nieces and nephews as though they were his own children.

As a banker, I know he bounced around a lot due to work transfers and was often separated from his young children. Maybe because of that, he was a very devoted grandfather. I recall bouncing on his feet as a toddler and the Konkani nursery rhymes he sang to my brother when he was a toddler. He and I would daily take long walks to the park. And he would spend hours on the ground playing Uncle Wiggily and Monopoly with the grand kids. He'd endure hours of Scooby Doo and the Flintstones. And when I got older, he taught me card games, like 5-3-2 and rummy. And then when I grew older still, he taught me naughty phrases in Konkani.

My ajja was not perfect. But he was a good man. He was responsible and a hard worker, but always game for enjoyment. From him, I inherited the not-so-sweet Sanadi temper, my stubbornness, love of dirty jokes, and passion for storytelling.

I will never be a daddy's girl, but I will always be a granddaddy's girl.

Summer, summer, summertime

School's out for the summer, and for the first time in two years, I don't have to slog to work on the daily, stare out the window and wish against wish against wish that I could be outside soaking up some of that delicious, natural Vitamin D.

But you know me, I'm never happy with what I have. As of today, my only real plan for the summer is to work M-Th at my grad job at the college, 16 hours a week. Clearly, that's not enough to keep my ADD brain at bay. This morning, while chatting with one of my bestests, I came up with a summer plan. Humor me.

Goal 1: Get a freakin' internship already *another interview Wednesday ::fingers crossed::*
Goal 2: Go on some dates (seriously, where are the men in Boston hiding?)
Goal 3: Go home for some much needed recharging in Rockford.
Goal 4: Get in shape, so I don't have to feel embarrassed when my friends want to go to the beach/when it's so hot in my apt that I finally have no choice but to wear shorts.
Goal 5: Write something every day, whether that be a blog entry, an update to my memoir, TV pilot based on CCS, etc.
Goal 6: Visit my cabal comrades in DC and NYC
Goal 7: Read for pleasure!

These are all doable right?

Beantown Throwdown

Today is the real St. Patty's day and I am in Boston, a city that is known for its rowdy Irish population. I can't help but wonder though, will St. Patty's Day be a little bit of a let down following the madness that is Unofficial?

Unofficial St. Patrick's Day, for those who don't know, is when University of Illinois students celebrate St. Patty's, because that day usually falls during spring break. People set their alarm clocks and get up at 7 for sunrise cocktails, Baileys and coffee, and mimosas. Usually by 10 or 11 (a.m.) there are lines down the block at bars and drunk people from all over the Midwest have taken over the quad. People are gone by mid-afternoon.

Every year, hundreds of people get public drunkenness citations. This year was no different: http://dailyillini.tumblr.com/. Every year, there are many traffic accidents. And usually, someone winds up gravely injured.

I am in NO way condoning any of this violent behavior, and now that I'm older, I don't even think I could handle that kind of undergraduate drinking, but I will always be nostalgic. I'm pretty sure I can handle anything Boston St. Patty's throws at me.

Traumas

A draft of my digital story for computer class. I smoked the undergrads with my story. :) See if you can spot the exaggerations.


Dec. 7, 2009. The day I almost died. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. There were so many bad omens – the fact that my boss almost forgot to book my airline tickets, a snowstorm the day of my departure, and the fact that my ride to the airport was named Heavy. But I was too excited to notice all these things.

I, along with my three coworkers – Paul, Dupree, and Cliff – was headed to a conference. In Vegas! It was a first for all of us. The anticipation had been building for weeks as we mentally planned out the sights … and the casinos and clubs … we’d be taking in during our down time.

Despite our 5 a.m. start time and the fact that we were crawling along at about 20 miles per hour, there was a positive atmosphere in the car. The music was turned up and smiles were spread all around. That is, until we hit a patch of black ice and I almost met my end along I-94.

As Heavy struggled to gain control of his SUV, we careened out of our lane in a sick kind of slow motion. The moment we began to skid, I braced for impact. I lost all feeling in my hands as I held onto the driver’s seat for dear life. I squeezed my eyes tight and didn’t open them again until I felt we were no longer moving. I’m not a religious person but I invoked the name of any higher power that my popped into my head. I just kept repeating this manta: Jesus, Shiva, Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Allah, Zeus, Jehovah ...
At the same time, I prayed that I would not have to go to the bathroom, a strong urge that had arisen before our car went off the road.

What seemed like a half hour journey probably amounted to just a few seconds. “Y’all okay?” Heavy’s girlfriend Tiffany called out. I opened my eyes. No scratches. I was shocked. I looked around. First, I glanced over at Cliff, who was seated next to me. He seemed to be in one piece. At least, he had the regular goofy look on his face. Then Paul and Dupree in the backseat. They looked fined too. Maybe just a little like they were going to be sick.

As we got out to assess the damage, some one pointed out that we just missed smashing into a signpost on our way down to side of the highway and into a ditch. Somehow, our car had averted an oncoming car, sped down a steep incline, and spun around, once again miraculously, to face the road. The car was a little worse for the wear but, no real damage was done. We had landed in waist high grass, but through sheer strength, the six of us – cold and scared, but feeling immortal – were able to push the car up onto the road.

Needless to say, we missed our flight. And of course, there wasn’t another for the next 10 hours. So we settled in at the airport bar, and toasted to a renewed outlook on life. Suddenly, these three guys I had barely known mere hours before were friends for life. Twelve hours and several rounds later, we were greeted by the bright lights of Vegas. The next three days were non-stop fun. New friends and new adventures. New sights and sounds. And a little bit of work of course. But in the back of my head, that whole week, I couldn’t help but be grateful for a second chance. And as I moved on from that job and embarked on each new chapter of my life, I recall that day as both one of the best and worst days of my life.

More from the mixed up files of Divya's lappie

The following is a blog post I wrote for class.


Baby, Be More Organized

Reality TV shows about motherhood are scary, but they’re not nearly as frightening as poorly organized essays. That’s my impression after reading Alessandra Stanley’s article “… And Baby Makes Reality TV.” She promises an analysis of motherhood through the reality TV lens (think 16 and Pregnant) and instead delivers a choppy summary of programming related to childbirth.

Initially, Stanley argues that the abundance of shows portraying the downsides of motherhood reflect a societal anxiety toward motherhood. Instead of romanticizing childbearing like entertainment news outlets (ahem, US Weekly), she claims true-life series like Teen Mom 2 and I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant illustrate the potential “dark side of giving birth.” Ok, makes sense.


Then, halfway through, Stanley loses herself. By trying to tackle too many aspects of childbearing, her essay becomes muddled. Suddenly, Stanley shifts her focus to society’s fear of women cheating nature. Here, she lumps together teen pregnancy and in vitro fertilization. Each could warrant its own essay.

Her last paragraph, which discusses delivering a baby in unstable situations, is disconnected from both angles. Pregnant and In Peril and Born on a Bad Day have no larger meaning for society. Except that it sucks to give birth when your life is in danger.


No matter how many puns she supplies or how colorful her vocabulary is, Stanley can’t compensate for a lack of organization. If she hadn’t diverged from her original thesis, her insights wouldn’t be so shallow. If only she had fleshed out her argument. Starting with why these shows are so prominent right now and ending with the media effects of viewing shows with negative treatments of pregnancy would have made her essay more powerful. Thoughtful organization goes a long way in directing good writing.

Stop Bastardizing My Favorite Movie

Singin' In the Rain is sacred to me. It is my pick-me-up movie. In my freshman year funk of depression, this No. 1 musical of all time was the one thing that could always cheer me up. I can't help but smile when I observe the absolute passion Gene Kelly and company put into this work of art.

Despite the fact that he died before I was ever aware of his talents, I've been in love with Gene Kelly since I was about 12. My best friend Katie and I could quote the dialogue back and sing you the lyrics to any of its songs. The wallpaper on my old lappie (may it rest in peace) was a picture of Gene Kelly in a sailor suit ala Anchors Aweigh.

Because it's such a recognizable, influential film, I can see why other people in show business would want to pay homage to it. But, nothing I've seen has been worthy.

Last year, JGL (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) tried to recreate "Make 'Em Laugh" during his SNL monologue. It was Okaaaaay. I'm only giving it a pass because it was JGL.



Then, Glee dedicated an entire episode to Singin' (the one with Gwyneth). Watching "Make 'Em Laugh" with Mr. Shue and "other Asian kid" was upsetting. I could see they were glee-full about the number, but they lacked that certain something that only Donald O'Connor could capture. He was a wiry, rubber-faced man with great tap skills. And nobody else can quite make me laugh the same way.

Glee also mashed up the title song with "Umbrella." I love me some Rihanna, but mixing "Umbrella-ella-ella-ella-ayyyy" with "Singin' In the Rain" doesn't work for me. The original is so classic. So effortlessly easy sounding. And damn if that isn't one of the best dance sequences EVER. Please don't try to recreate it. You will embarrass yourself.



And now, insult of all insults. Volkswagen launched a campaign in 2006 featuring tweaked footage of Kelly dancing iconic sequences from the movie. First they rolled out a reproduction of the title number, where something was a little off. Kelly was doing isolations and crazy legs. Apparently, three different hip-hop dancers reinterpreted his moves with a mask on upon which Kelly's face was superimposed.



Last month, VW premiered a Jetta commercial along the same lines. The second ad shows a segment of O'Connor and Kelly's "Moses" tap, except that they are sitting in the backseat of a Jetta, demonstrating how much leg room the new model has. Please stop using my beloved movie to sell cars.



Can't people just leave good enough (or great!) alone?