You Can’t Be Serious(8)

His question sat on my chest like a hundred bricks. Why didn’t we tell them that’s what we were doing? Meaning it was our responsibility to make ourselves worthy of not being taunted or beaten up? Was Navroze Mody’s big mistake that he didn’t tell people what he was doing?

I stared out the bus window. I was relieved to know that another spitball would not land in my hair that day, and yet, my brain was busy sorting out what had happened. Kids were complimenting our performances, reenacting their favorite lines. (My in-the-zone pelvic thrust was the clear highlight—something even assholes loved.18)

I felt like I had discovered a superpower! While watching our scenes, these guys forgot their preconceived notions, and did something they didn’t think they would: They laughed with us. The very same kids who spit on us and kicked our asses while quoting Apu and Indiana Jones… we just changed their minds using the same techniques those TV shows and movies used—humor and art. Comedy can bring people together and change how they feel! This magical realization continued when friends and parents—mine included—watched and applauded when the show opened that night. It was the first catalyst in my passion for acting.

So, Randy Finn, Ben Garber, and David Cohen: Thanks for teaching me that there is a way to reach dumb-dumbs like you. Because hey, twenty-five years later, that seventh-grade dothead you bullied was one of People magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive. I told you to pelvic thrust “Watch out!”


1?My first time witnessing white guilt.

2?I have absolutely no idea if anything I describe here is in any way historically accurate.

3?This is why they moved to America, so their kid could learn the word hooker in fifth grade.

4?Yes, I’ve had a chip on my shoulder since adolescence. My therapist says it’s part of what makes me a good artist. I don’t necessarily agree?

5?Yiddish for grandmother.

6?“That’s why it’s called faith!” says the T-shirt at a gift shop that wouldn’t have my name on anything.

7?Scandalous tidbit here. “Kosher-style” means the food isn’t technically kosher. As a friend of mine recently put it, “We lied to Grandma about it. And that fake ice cream was so gross.”

8?Still one of my favorite activities.

9?The color matched the invitation card perfectly.

10?From a scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, in which the Indian characters eat monkey brains (and bugs).

11?The Simpsons.

12?The name of the exchange student in Sixteen Candles.

13?Good time to point out something that I’m told is not always obvious if you aren’t Asian American. Shows like The Simpsons certainly “make fun of everyone,” but when the white (okay, yellow) cartoon characters are the only ones well-developed and fleshed out, and when the Indian ones are the only ones whose racial signifiers are mentioned, that’s where the stereotypes come from. You might think to yourself, What about characters like Barney who are drunkards? Well, the reason they don’t count is because the leads themselves are also white (okay, yellow!). If The Simpsons had brown lead characters whose racial signifiers didn’t drive their character’s plotlines, it would offset what they did with Apu and the resulting depictions would be multifaceted.

14?Their website is literally NJ.com.

15?Besides bar and bat mitzvahs.

16?Cyanide.

17?I sometimes was, and still am, very dramatic. I AM!

18?Pun intended.





CHAPTER TWO WHAT HAPPENED TO THE OTHER THIRTEEN POINTS?

(and Other Questions That Don’t Have Answers)




We have a dear family friend named Pushpa Auntie. She’s a sweet, quiet woman with exceptionally long black hair tightly wound into a single braid, interrupted only by a bright red rubber band. She’s like an Indian Rapunzel, except, instead of being sadly banished to a tower, she happily enjoys the freedom of shopping at Target in suburban Passaic County. Pushpa Auntie’s conservative look accentuates her innocence: Two things she always wears? A salwar kameez and a smile. Her childhood friends gave her a fun nickname because she was so virtuous: They shortened Pushpa to Pushy—since she’s anything but.

Many languages, including Gujarati, have multiple s-sounds, which leads some folks to incorrectly pronounce the sh in Pushpa as a more dainty s, an unflattering Poo-spa. This type of transference can make the word action become ack-sun. And it turned Pushy Auntie’s nickname into…

“Come downstairs, Pussy Auntie is here!”

The other aunties would call this out to us as her cream-colored Ford Taurus station wagon pulled up to our house. We’d descend the stairs amid the mouthwatering scent of samosas sizzling, listening to the uncles’ jovial greetings,

“Hi Pussy!”

The aunties—wholesome immigrant women—never could figure out why the kids snickered and giggled every time Pussy Auntie visited.1

Pussy Auntie was hardworking, like most of my parents’ friends. She’s a pediatrician who came to America in search of a better life, and she was adamant that her kids—and her friends’ kids—study hard and pursue careers in the sciences. To an outsider, it might seem a bit invasive to hear that family friends would take such intimate interest in the personal lives of kids who aren’t their own, but that’s not really how the Indian community views things. Culturally, having your parents’ friends dispense advice about how you should live your life is supposed to feel far less like an imposition and more like the blessing of extra community support—from their perspective at least. I had the benefit of love from people we called aunties and uncles—not related by blood, but by an even closer bond of immigration experience, language, and culture. Like my parents, they risked it all, sacrificed, and worked toward a better life for their kids.