The Post that wasn't

After an obnoxious (yet completely familiar) conversation with a fellow Iowan, I started furiously planning out a biting blog on cultural idiocy. Perhaps a “10 things I hate about living in the US” list. Inspired in part by Andy’s one year anniversary blog post. By the way, sidenote: Congratulations Andy!

But by the time I settled in front of my laptop, I could no longer remember why I had my knickers up in knots in the first place. And I couldn’t think of ten things that didn’t sound uncomfortably close to whining. So it got scrapped.

But I have noticed that over the years, I am increasingly intolerant of questions that end in “is that a cultural thing?” or any mention of “dots on my forehead”. Or even an innocuous, well-meaning compliment on the “costume” I am wearing.

Go google it. I am not your anthropology subject, fool.

And now that I’ve gotten warmed up on the matter…how many years do I have to live in this country before people stop clarifying for me, “Because you are Indian, right?”. Is it that hard to believe that I am weird independent of my desi origins? Okay, don’t answer that.

Also isn’t it obvious by now that I don’ t know Gopal from Maryland or Shashi from New York? That your real estate agent is Indian means nothing–absolutely nothing–to me (except a cue for awkward head nod and smile). Watch more television! These queries are punchlines to a hundred sitcom jokes. For the love of the goddess, no I do not know Swathi from Detroit or Imran from Virginia..oh wait..I do know them…umm..nevermind…*slaps forehead*

Also yeah, I have an accent. Get over it. Please. As quickly as possible.

Ah, and here I was thinking I had successfully side-stepped a rant. No such luck. A rant cometh and spews forth like some shaken up coca cola can, spraying its sugary browness all over my little cyber nook.

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