Birthday Cake Remix.

Dear World Wide Web,
Today while my mother was “conversing” with the chief cake decorator of Publix about my sweet sixteen cake, I realized something. ( Well, my mother’s level of volume in that store my be considered shouting by those with normal levels of hearing....) I realized that my life is almost like the gargantuan and highly unnecessary three tier cake we were ordering: completely up to me.
When we began the cake ordering process, my mother and I were directed towards the book of preselected cake designs. Naturally, I went ahead and began looking through the book to find the perfect cake while my mother and the chief of cake decorating began “conversing” about how much a cake for two hundred people would cost. Then my mother asked the decorator if we could change the colors and designs of the cake to our liking. Right when I turned to look at the decorator, I caught her say the three letter word I was hoping for: yes. It was at that exact moment when I had an epiphany fit for the big screen.
A moment where everything around me became nothing more than soft hums, my surroundings faded to black, and the usually whimsical sound of Whitney Houston’s number one hit playing suddenly became awfully intense. I finally realized that lump of information that I’ve been trying to put my finger on for years. Like the famous quote in Julius Caesar, "Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings." Suddenly it all made sense! Of course they would let me pick the color of the fondant, the color of the icing, and the size of the cake, there is no way I would be happy with anything that was preselected for me. Then when I realized that, I couldn’t help but laugh. Though, that had to be stifled because my mother was giving me the “laugh one more time and you won’t have lungs when you wake up tomorrow” look.
After my mom was done guessing cake prices with the chief cake decorator, I told my mother that there was NO way we were doing the rainbow cake that we picked out, I really wanted a custom cake of my favorite colors and designs. She shot me a quizzical look and I stood there triumphantly knowing that if I had not said anything, then the predetermined cake of disgust would be sitting in my backyard on June 5th. We changed the orders for the cake and walked to the car. It was then I jumped into the driving seat of my life and the car.
I put my indicator on and turned out of the neighborhood Publix. As I did, my eyes glazed the horizon and I couldn’t help but smile because I have my whole life ahead of me and I will not let anyone make choices for me, even if it does come in a convenient, predetermined, nicely shaped cake decorating book.

Carpe Diem,
DECAFdork

R.S.V.P.

Dear World Wide Web,
Every time May 12th rolls around I become a year older. It’s my born day, birthday, date of birth, day of birthing, and coming into the world day! Whatever you want to call it, my mom will only remember my birth as, “ The in vitro fertilization that caused me to lose a day and a half of sleep.” However, this year is completely different story.
For the past few months she has not been yelling at me about cleaning up after myself, dressing like a man, or calling me fat. Instead, she has been heckling me with guest lists, caterers, music selections, and cotton candy machines. This June 5th is the celebration of the sixteenth anniversary of, “The in vitro fertilization that caused her to lose a day and a half of sleep.” That’s right, it is the big one six.
It still has not hit me that on June 5, 2010, two hundred people are flocking to our modest home to celebrate my birthday with us. Seriously, I’m not exaggerating, my mom and I counted the R.S.V.P’d guests so we could place an order for the caterer and the cake; when I found out two hundred people were coming to our house, my mouth literally dropped to the floor.
I was shocked! My mom began to list who was flying in when and when we were supposed to pick them all up from the airport and to my surprise, I started to cry. It was such an overwhelming moment for me. I seriously left the living room and locked myself in my room and spent hours bawling. My mom could not figure out why I was crying for such a long time, but here is something to think about. It is a really overwhelming moment when you realize that there are people, no matter where they are, love you for you. I always knew that I had a big group of loving family and friends, but I had no idea that they would all be prepared to fly from as far as Pasadena, California to spend a day what was once just a nominal to me.
With the birthday party coming up, I asked my mom what the big deal about this party was. She looked at me square in the face and began to stroke my hair as she tried to steady her voice. She told me, “Raysoo, your father and I love you very much and we cannot believe how quickly time has passed. We wanted to have this party so we could make sure we were not hallucinating and everyone else we knew could see that you are growing up too fast.” Again, someone opened the flood gates in my tear ducts as I clutched on to my Ammu as she tried to calm me down. I never really realized how important this tradition is to my family, all I can do is just smile and remind myself how blessed I am for such a loving family.
Moral of the story here is that at some point we all cry. For example during this party planning period, all of my family members have cried at least once.My dad started tearing up when he saw how much the bill was going to be, my mom cried when I tried on my birthday outfit, and Zahara cried when she found out how many presents I am going to get.


Not as caffeinated,
DECAFdork

Talent Shmalent

Dear World Wide Web,
Dressed in my favorite white dress accessorized with obvious confidence, I marched out of the car as I told my mother jokingly, “Make sure you stick around after the show, I will try to sign you an autograph or something.” Little did I know that the next 3 and a half hours of practicing scales and memorizing lyrics were going to be what I would later recall to be, “Butterflies in my stomach on steroids.” After the endless waiting, I heard my name announced on the mic and made my way to the center stage. The lights were glaring, the audience was packed, and my dress was beginning to bind. I looked to my guitarist and gave him the nod to start playing. He strummed the first chord with ease and I shook off my fears....
Wait, let’s back up a little. You may be somewhat confused about what I am talking about.
In January, the president of Key Club at our school announced that we were having our annual talent show. I slumped down in my chair and pretended not to hear the announcement and as I did, the person sitting next to me remarked, “I can’t imagine how difficult that would be! I mean...all of those people.” I looked at him blankly and said, “Yeah, I would never do that.” He then cocked his head to the side and asked, “Wait, what the heck would you even do?” As he sat there waiting for an answer, I decided not to continue the conversation. I simply shrugged my shoulders and went on listening to the morning announcements. The rest of the day went on normally until my friend dared me to go sign up and audition for the show as a joke.
I was excited for the auditions because it was going to be hilarious! I did not question my act for ONE moment. That is of course, until the actual day of auditions. I was so sure of my rap, I knew that they would love me! However, as the school day came to a close, I found myself becoming slightly nervous and during the last period of the day I was paralyzed with fear. Though I was friends with everyone on the panel for judging, I was incredibly nervous about my rap.
I entered the theater at precisely 3 p.m. on a sunny Friday afternoon awaiting my opportunity to display my talent for “spitting rhymes.” As the audition process went on, I witnessed my peers display countless talents, further discouraging my decision to audition: even if it was a joke. Finally, after waiting what seemed to be an eternity, my moment presented itself. I readied myself on stage for my audition and the nerves were getting worse. One of the members of the panel asked me what my talent was and to my surprise, I could not formulate an answer. They stared at me as I felt the room spin, sweat droplets form, and my sophisticated vernacular disappearing. The one word I could muster was, “Sing.”

The nervousness began to abate.

They asked me, “ What do you think you’ll sing today,” I thought about it and calmly answered, “Put Your Records On by Corinne Bailey Rae.” I saw looks of incertitude reverberate throughout the small crowd and then judges cued me to start.
I began to sing the song accapello style and the room stood still, the sweat evaporated, and my words were intelligible. The nerves had completely subsided! I had always loved singing and sang anywhere and everywhere, but never did I consider it a talent. As the song came to a close I looked to my friend to see her response and much to my surprise her mouth was wide open. She told me as we were leaving the auditorium, “ Dude, you sing? When did that happen?” I shrugged and said, “What are you talking about?” She stared at me in disbelief, “ I can’t believe you never told me you sang, or that you LIKED to sing.” She was joking but I never really considered singing in front of people before.
After being notified that we were all in the talent show, my friends and I practiced during lunch so we could evaluate each other’s performances. The more I practiced, the more I found how much I loved to sing and just perform.
FAST-FORWARD TO PRESENT TIME
I began to belt my heart out and for 3 minutes I felt something I had never felt before: comfortable in my own skin. To my dismay, the song ended and my friends and family rose to their feet to commend me on my triumph. During the intermission I rushed to my mom to ask her honest opinion, she hugged me and told me that she was glad I did not embarrass her in front of her friends. I hugged her back and the nerves that had attacked me during the auditions began to rise again, but these were different nerves. These were the nerves responsible for me telling my mother, “Mom, I don’t care. I’m finally home.” She then responded that we wouldn’t be home for another 20 minutes. I rolled my eyes at her because I know what I meant and I mean it.
I’m finally home.

Not as caffeinated,
DECAFdork

Reality of Violence

Dear World Wide Web,
In the very first pages of the book A long way gone, Ishmael Beah reminisces over a moment he shared with some of his friends after his long journey had finally come to a conclusion. I am ashamed to admit that when I first read the response his friends had to “seeing people running around with guns and shooting each other,” I laughed. Though after diving into the book and really absorbing the grave effects violence can have on one’s mentality, I regretted laughing instantly. Violence is an issue that is taken far too lightly in many countries including the United States and the response Ishmael’s friend had is one of many examples.
At first I felt that his friends’ response to “ seeing people running around with guns and shooting each other,” was hilarious but then after reading the book and thinking about why that comment was farcical, I simply could not come up with an answer. I thought about it for a substantial amount of time and have come to this conclusion: they were ignorant and so was I. Though I have no idea who exactly was taking a part of the conversation or what terrors each of his friends have faced in their lives; I know I am right. What is sadder is that I cannot blame them (or myself) for being ignorant. This is because the influences around them and ultimately us have imposed this thought that violence is “cool.” Though if they knew the horrific savagery and tragedy that Ishmael had to face at an appalling age, their jokes and smiles would quickly fade. In short, I detest what his friends said (and my reaction), but cannot say I am completely colored shocked by their (and my) response.
I do not necessarily think that all students here in the United States share the same responses to violence. I believe that initial responses depend on the perspective students have on violence. I personally think that these perspectives can be shaped by suffering a loss due to violence, witnessing a cruel act, etc. Though these are horrible things to say and think about, it is absolutely true. When is the last time you were caught in the middle of a crossfire, violent car jacking, or witnessed someone being shot right in front of you? Most likely the response will be, “Well in this one movie....”

This is exactly my point.

Until now I never realized how twisted laughing at violence is. When we see movies or read about violence in a book, it is such a surreal event that it does not even register that everyday people just like YOU and ME are getting hurt out there in the cold and unforgiving world and somehow we laugh about it. Even in the first chapter of the book, Ishmael Beah talk about how he thought the war was,

“...happening in a faraway and different land. It wasn’t until refugees started passing through our town that we began to see that it was actually taking place in our country.....At times I thought that some of the stories the passerby told were exaggerated.The only wars I knew of were those that I had read about in books or seen in movies such as Rambo: First Blood, and the one in neighboring Liberia that I had heard about on the BBC news.” (Beah 1-2)

It is not until Ishmael is forced to face the harsh realities of the war that he begins to understand that wars and violence are not like the movies where the protagonist prevails and lives a carefree life after his victory, it is much more complex than that. I am not saying by any means I understand completely what Ishmael has been through or have witnessed any of these things, I just understand the situation better.

I believe that something that the media has attributed to the thinking that violence is, “cool.” The media, which consists of movies, books, magazines, tv, etc., have contoured the images we have of violence and have validated it to be an act of patriotism (the war), courage, and even strength. Though, what this book has shown me about violence is that we never see what happens to those effected by violence.

I know it’s a strange thought but take a moment to ruminate over this: Have you ever seen the tragedy, devastation or tears of the afflicted after a major battle scene? Me neither.

So I come to this conclusion internet world: if you still think violence is cool, you are lame.


Not as caffeinated,
DECAFdork

Heartbreak Warfare.

Dear World Wide Web,
It was an unusually warm Tuesday morning as I was sitting in the car, on the way to my elementary school. I was in the second grade, and thought I had everything figured out. I knew what high school, college, and even law school I wanted to go to, all by the time I was six and a half. There was something different about this day, from all the other times I had been dropped of at school.

As we were zooming down I-75, Ammu ( what Zahara and I are supposed to call our mom) decided to put this brand new cd that looked relatively good into the stereo. "Bye,bye,bye," was all it took and I was addicted. The song was so upbeat and catch, definitely calling for spastic dancing on my part. Ammu glanced at me from the side mirror on the car and asked if I was having some kind of "episode". I told her that I had found my favorite band of all time: *NSYNC. She laughed and rolled her eyes... of course. Then after relentless kicking and screaming, I had Ammu pass back the cd cover so I could glance at the cover of the geniuses behind the creation of the cd. As soon as it reached the very grips of my fingertips, the moment happened. The moment I had fallen in love, my very first. Not the kind of love that you have for a small chihuahua or a snuggie, this was the kind of love you have for people who really mean something to you, that could last forever.

There he dangled on the front of the “No Strings Attached” cd album with slight spiky hair, highlights, well styled jeans, and adorable black sweater was the fifth member on the right: Lance Bass. I had fallen in love at first glance. My whole world had been turned upside down in a matter of milliseconds; until that moment I believed that boys had cooties and were gross and icky, but Lance was different. He was a man. From that one picture on the cover of the album, I could tell several things. He seemed sensitive, looked gorgeous, and sounded talented. He was definitely the hunk for me.

Finally, I got to school. Although, when I got there the day zoomed by and all of my thoughts were consumed by his incredible face structure, green eyes, and fabulous hair. The second grade could not have gotten any more complicated. Later that day when Ammu picked Zahara and I from school, I picked up the “No Strings Attached” cover and ripped out the picture cover. I slid that picture into my jeans pocket and made sure no one saw. Then I realized that I did not care, I was in love. I even talked to the picture I tore out of Lance at night, making some of my biggest second grade decisions with him by my side. At that point, I felt like we were an actual married couple, we did everything together!

Eventually my friends knew something was different with my behavior and asked me what was wrong. I dreamily looked at them and told them I was in love. They asked, “ Are you sure you do not just like them a lot?” I told them proudly no, “ I mean It's that can't-eat, can't- sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, world-series kind of stuff.” My friends gasped slightly gasped and backed away a little. They knew it was serious if I was quoting my favorite movie “It takes two.” They pressed and pressed about who my "soulmate" was but I avoided answering it. An older man? They would not handle that well. Eventually I gave up and told them I had the hots for Grant Maris, (He was attractive back then) and they did the traditional “ Awwww, he is so perfect routine,” and never brought up my crush up again.

The Lanyesa Basshury relationship progressed until August of 2006. Then he came out to the world admitting that he was gay. I was CRUSHED. The first man I had given my whole heart to, and he was gay? I was nearly in tears when I found out. My first secret-imaginary-slightly creepy relationship, and it turned out he didn't want to have anything to do with me. You can imagine the rage I felt.

The worst thing about it is how I found out. My mom was taking me to publix for some school supplies and that was when I saw this sitting at the checkout lane. -------->



This was too much for me to even handle. My heart was ripped from my chest all at once and I could not even breathe. In the amount of time it took for the grocery bagger to ask paper or plastic, my world had done a complete 180. I was absolutely crushed, and my mom looked at me the same way she did when I first discovered my love of *NSYNC. I told her in a very condensed manner what happened and she said (this seriously happened) " It's not like you were going to marry him. You'll get over it." That's the day my heart had been broken twice. Once from Lance leaping out of the closet with full force and twice when my mother of didn't offer as much as a shoulder to cry on.

Sincerely
DECAFdork

Homecoming: Superheros

Dear World Wide Web,

With homecoming week underway, I was envisioning all the upcoming themed days in my mind. The first theme my mind wandered to was naturally Monday, Superhero day. Before the images of Batman, The Flash, and Spider-Man crossed my mind, I thought of my biggest super hero: my father.

There are times where I want to hide from my parents because they're incredibly embarrassing, but my father's journey to the United States is the most inspirational story I have ever heard. Every time I tell the story of how my father had literally grown from the ground up, jaws steadily drop until they lay on the floor. Though, it is not because of my exquisite story telling skills, it is because of the suffering he had endured to pursue the “American Dream.”

My father, Lokman, had been born in Chittagong, with ten brothers and sisters getting by with what they had. Because my great grandfather owned a primary school in Chittagong, my aunts and uncles were able to receive a perfectly fine education, and were able to barely hold their lives together. Everyone was continuing in their own way until 1971, the year of the Bangladesh War of Liberation. This was when Bangladesh, which was then East Pakistan was asserting its independence from West Pakistan, which is now Pakistan. My father enlisted in the army to pay tribute to the land he loved most. During his time in the army he worked his way up to become a “freedom fighter," fighting with blood, sweat and tears. Although, this was not enough, he was captured a few months into the war, only to become a prisoner of war. Three months later, he negotiated his way out of prison and promised his fellow inmates that he would escape the life he led now. That was when he took everything he had to America, without the help of his parents. He was desperate for a new chapter in his life, a beacon of light, and that beacon was America. He was going to move there regardless of what his parents had thought.

With one hundred taka in his pocket, or 10 US dollars, he flew overseas to Hartford, Connecticut where he stayed in an old friend’s basement. The first thing he did upon his arrival in Connecticut was go to the salvation army and buy a suit for his job interviews with the three dollars he set aside for his business attire. He eventually purchased an itchy green suit with missing buttons and rips everywhere, but nevertheless it was intact. He applied for countless odd jobs, at banks, carvel factories and kfc stores because it was now his responsibility to pay for his education. For five years, he had lived in the cramped basement working sedulously on ways to make more money, making sure his future family would never suffer like he had to. He struggled every day, living the life of an overspent 28 year old.

After the long endured five years, he had gotten his first raise to a managerial position at kfc, which was enough to let go of his other two jobs at the bank and the carvel factory. Through his new managerial position he met his best friend, Dave. When Dave's grandfather, the owner of most of the corporation at the time had passed, he had left Dave a large amount of franchises. With that, my father sharpened his English, people skills, and financial abilities, and was recommended for a partnership in a 50 store franchise with his best friend.

My father was dumbfounded; he had absolutely nothing to say, nothing in his life had ever presented itself before him without any pretenses. Just like that, his life had turned right side up, allowing him to find his rightful place in the world.

Sometimes I wonder how he did it all, and is still incredibly humbled by this experience 35 years later. A few years ago, I asked him because I was completely puzzled by his life story. He told me to check the back of his closet, and I did. There in a raggedy black garment bag laid the green suit, tears and all. He had pursued the American Dream all on his own, from the ground up.

Not as decaffeinated,
DECAF dork

Where's the sheep herder? I found the black sheep.

Dear World Wide Web,
They say that some of our traits are genetic, but I refuse to believe that. It just doesn't add up to me. The facts simply are not there. Every member of my family is at least fifteen shades darker than I am, has silkier hair, shades of light brown in their hair, and much smarter. While I stand pale, coarse haired, and sometimes oblivious to the world. Obviously whoever decided this arrangement wanted to play a cruel joke and make a black sheep in the family: me.
The only thing is that, not only do I look the part of the black sheep, I definitely feel like it. Although, it's not the significant events in my life that have made this incredibly clear cut for me to understand, it's the little things. It's the fact that in my baby pictures I look like a pasty, white, awful ugly infant with two slits for eyes rather than my beautiful baby sister with milky skin and big round eyes. Or that I was asked if I was adopted at my cousins wedding ( yes, that happened). It's the fact that I really don't belong, not even genetically.
I do honestly love my family, but they make it hard to admit it when I'm too busy turning shades of crimson while hiding behind something. If only I could describe how embarrassing my family was. You would not even be able to fathom it.
A few months ago my dad was dropping me off at school and said in his most serious voice, “You work too hard, you really are a dork. I’ve never really seen a kid work seven-twenty four,” I stared in disbelief for a moment and said, “excuse me?” He then retorted, “Don’t look at me like that; you know it is seven-twenty four.” I thought to myself, “Gee, hopefully my intelligence comes from mom's side of the family.”
Later my mom was in the store with my sister and I. I was incredibly ecstatic that I was invited to take a special drama class in the beginning of the year, and I tell my mom, “Mom, I’m going to be a thespian!” Without thinking, she screams at the tops of her lungs, “NO DAUGHTER of mine will chase after girls romantically.” Then she started crying, at what I regret to inform you as full volume. I couldn't even decide what was more embarrassing, the fact that I was so red I was purple, or that my mom was pointing at me, rambling on about how disgraceful I was to the family.
They really are embarrassing, but they have developed my character in such a way that I would not be who I am today without their antics. They have taught me to love my roots and stand up for what I believe in, making me stand out. I may be a black sheep in several ways, but I never said it was a bad thing. It makes me self conscious at times, knowing everyone's staring at me because I'm the "casper" of the family. Although it all depends on how well you can take people criticizing or making fun of you. As you can see, I find the most therapeutic way to deal is to laugh my insecurities off, because even if I'm the black sheep, it's what I am. I can't change it, and wouldn't change it for anything.
Regardless, I have to put my past behind me and work on being proud of my inherited genetic traits, even if it takes seven- twenty four.
not as caffeinated,
DECAF dork