American Dream- A Spoken Word

In The Beginning 

“I want to move to America. 

The first words of her American Dream baby. 

The start to a long, winding road with ups and downs that led to the golden arches of clean air, greasy diner food and capitalism.

The words written by a young woman who had never left her hometown, who never really left the small white room in her childhood home.

The words shared by so many visionaries who dreamt of the same blue skies as she had.

The musings of her dreams poured into letters that went into the pocket of her husband who promised her, it would happen

one day or three months

or a decade of a life built in the comfortable apartment  in a hectic city on a traffic ridden street, later;

something would happen.

Right now, she was just a young woman,  college bound, wanting to build herself in a career that most deemed “unsuitable”for a person like her. 

Time and time again, being the only woman in the department.  

It wouldn’t be the first or last time. 

She worked and worked and never stopped, till her step on the ladder grew, 

The roots of her hard work growing into a blossoming money tree.

The American Dream, baby. 

Also In the Beginning 

“I want to move to America,”

And so does half the working class in India, join the queue .

Others were a little less optimistic than she was, watching as friend after friend moved away to the promised land, 

promised so much but given so little. 

Given a one bedroom apartment  with an AC unit that you had to hit twice to feel cool air

Watching them turn and twist into becoming the computer guy joke for their colleagues at dinner parties. 

Or the foreign neighbors who were never invited to community picnics because they didn’t eat the barbeque sauce slathered piece of meat that their counterparts claimed was “to die for.”

Being the perpetual ‘others’. 

“Lock up your doors, lock up your windows! 

There are immigrants coming to steal your jobs!”

Constantly being told,

“Your accent makes it hard to understand what you’re saying.”

Hearing

“You’re not living here anymore, why do you care about us?”

Why would she want to go someplace where she wouldn’t be welcome?

Where people preach  of welcoming hard working immigrants into their cities 

But complain when they make themselves comfortable?

They told her,

The American Dream is just a fantasy,

For those who can afford it. 

Not everyone can go there, some of us are fine as we are. 

And you should be too. Remember what you have! 

How could you leave your parents?  At their age?

I know, 

I know. I know. 

But

Dreamers don’t stop dreaming after the sun wakes up and light hits their face. 

Dreamers don’t let go of that one dream that never seems to leave them, 

The one they recall to their roomates the next morning 

And ask them if they think it’s true. 

American Dreams were always on her mind. 

When she was working day and night, chasing that high. 

When she was traveling back and forth, imagining her life in the States. 

And when a baby girl,

A dark haired, bright eyed, tight ponytails and bad eyesight baby girl was born 

With the same skin and dreams as her,

A baby girl who wasn’t too young to

dream of freedom before she could even talk and the chance to be able to walk outside in the dark, alone,

to be able to breathe clean air,

to talk openly about her family, 

to love. 

She promised her that she would do right by her. 

Four Years, Two Months Later.

The clock hand tick by as she spends another night in her office, 

Typing out more presentations her boss needs by 11 AM, sharp. 

He forgot that his 11 AM was her midnight, 

Still, she continues. 

Tapping away on a company provided laptop, 

Her baby girl is miles away in a different country

Getting ready for her first day of school. 

She wonders if her husband played the video she had made, so baby girl doesn’t miss her mom so much. 

When she looks out of the window, she sees people wandering in the streets, 

Foreign people in a foreign land. 

She had been here many times before, 

One day she would have to get her family here too. 

Next year, she would have to come back again. 

Next month, they were sending her to Europe. 

Another two weeks before she’s home again, 

But not really. 

Not when her mind is miles away in an office chair overlooking the Seine,

Or in a dark lit conference room in Singapore, 

Or in the backseat of an airplane next to the bathroom and a very comfortable co-passenger. 

Work never stopped, not at the red light, 

Not during hospital visits

Not during  a birthday party.

Work so her American boss tells her that she’s doing a good job, 

Work so she can be the only woman in the meeting and still feel like The Man.

She wanted the American Dream, and she was getting there 

Working hard and becoming successful, check.

A good job, check.

A nice house, maybe one day.

Financially free, as much as one could be.

It would take time to get 

Where most people got, just by being born. 

As luck would have it, they got where she wanted by 

just being born.

At the right place, at the right time. 

12 Years, One Month and Nineteen Days Later,

A phone call. 

The phone rang from her work bag, 

(A foreign number; +1) 

She excused herself from the room and locked herself in the balcony. 

Her daughter watched her back as she faced away from them. 

Two minutes went by, then ten. 

She came back into the house

Walked past her daughter and to the living room. 

30 minutes, 5 seconds later.

The door to her daughter’s room opened. 

They walked in. 

She sat across from the girl, 

(Baby girl who was not a baby anymore),

“That was my boss,”

“He wants to move us to America.”

Silence

Surprise

Excitement

Where would we live?

 New York, Boston, Chicago?

A hopeful request

“Lexington, 

Kentucky.”

Silence. 

Disappointment 

But some,

Relief

Two older and one young shoulder

Let go of stress, 

Worry

And let excitement fill their souls,

relief and gratitude

for whatever Fates led them to this moment. 

flashes of red white and blue before their eyes.. 

The American Dream got one step closer. 

5 Years And Then Some

Baby girl has been living here for 5 years now, 

5 years, two schools, one green card and a brand new personality later. 

Baby girl has an American accent to her friends back in India.

But her friends in Kentucky say that she has a British accent, 

(she doesn’t understand how that’s possible.)

Baby girl is living her childhood dreams, 

Going to football games, 

Walking alone outside, after 8-PM. 

Driving. 

Baby girl finds it hard to listen to her friends when they talk about how much they hate America. 

After all she’s been through to get there, 

It’s blasphemous to hate the country, 

That gave so much hope. 

When she was younger, 

She had a Dream, 

That when she would

Work Hard

Play Hard

She would 

Get Successful.

Have a Nice House. 

With stairs inside, 

A backyard that’s just hers. 

Maybe a fireplace, if that wasn’t pushing it.

Be financially stable.

As financially free as one could be. 

A dream, baby.

Why Do I Write?

Outer Monologue 

“So, you consider yourself to be a.. what?

A writer?

A self-destructive, head-above-the-clouds, angsty, messy artist 

With no grip on reality or any sense of what the real world will show you? 

Show you, show you disappointment, struggle and leave you considering a new career,

You do have a backup plan, right?

When you’re dreams to become the next Great American novelist inevitably fails?

You do have an idea of that, right?”

Inner Monologue 

My words have show me

That there’s a place to dream

A hope to strive for

And a world in which

My voice can be heard

My words,

They help me sleep and dream of new worlds. 

So,

why do I write?

I write to print the messages of my mind onto the canvas of the world that I live in. 

I write to live

Through the universes of my own mind. 

To escape the tethers of the one I reside in.

I write to live.

Calcutta

Inspired by Brown Girl, Bluegrass 

Calcutta 

Capital of West Bengal

Colonial Capital of British india

Also known as Kolkata or Kalikata, for ease of Anglican tongues

Calcutta 

My birthplace

The City of Joy, Food, History And Music

Home of College Street

And Victoria Memorial, a large marble dedication to the usurper, or better known as Queen Victoria

The Indian Museum

Park Street

The birthplace of artists like Tagore

Martyrs like Teresa

And girls, like me.  

Where my grandparents spent their entire lives, raising their two daughters

Where my parents met during their masters program.

The place where they got married. 

Where I was born,

On a cold, January Sunday in the hospital furthest from my mom’s home. 

Currently, the city where my grandparents still live

Where my grandma spends her weekends in the Calcutta Club, playing poker with her friends and enjoying the luxuries of colonial practices the Brits forgot to take back with them

Like well dressed butlers

And being called “ma’am”

And being proud patrons of an elusive “gentleman’s club”

The city where I spent my early childhood

The city where my best friend lives as his father serves in the Army. 

I haven’t visited my home in over three years.

Calcutta, the City of Joy

Amma

This poem is written about my maternal grandmother, I call her Amma. The first few lines are Bengali, the language that we speak. Enjoy!

Baba high court judge chillen. 

Amader Patna bari khoob shundoor chiloo

I wish you could have seen it, Roshu

Our sprawling bungalow in Patna, 

Filled with vines, wild mango trees and dogs. 

Judy the greyhound

Wendy the dachshund

Ma’s pet deer, before it became illegal to own one.

She kept a garden in the back where she grew vegetables.

Of course, she was never the one who cooked them.

There were multiple secret passageways for a little girl to get lost in.

The rain in the monsoon seasons would pitter-patter against my window frame.

The humidity would cause my hair to frizz,

Oh, if only you could have seen it, Roshu. 

Baba commanded respect, his people loved him. 

He stood up for the low wage workers, 

Argued for the little guy

I hope you do the same, Roshu.

The house was full of music, light and colors. 

I wish you could have seen it, Roshu. 

Before, well, everything.

Before the demolition, court cases and family against family. 

I wish you could have seen it, Roshu. 

I know you would have loved it, Roshu. 

Model Minority 

A continuation of my rage towards the general population- Enjoy!

I’ll be can be your best immigrant 

I can speak 3 languages other than English

but never by default 

I’ll share stories of my homeland at parties

but not too often. 

I mean, this is America!

I can laugh at your politically incorrect jokes 

even if they’re at my expense

I’ll bite my mother-tongue

I don’t want to hurt your feelings.

I’ll spare you from the tales of my past,

My trials and tribulations

That brought me here.

Because, after all

isn’t it so much better in America 

than wherever hellhole you came from?

I can hang an American flag on my front door

and pray that no one looks inside. 

Phoenix Girl 

“In order to rise from its own ashes

A

Phoenix

First

Must

Burn”

 Burn

Burn like the soils of my homeland 

Burn like my skin when I would walk outside in July 

Ashes in the sky

Pollution and smoke 

Remnants of the celebration of the Festival of Lights 

Ashes on a pyre 

First

I’m the first daughter to come to America 

I’ll be the first to graduate from an American college

First, a child of my motherland

Then, me. 

-Quote By Octavia Butler

a first kiss

we burned our tongue on hot pavements

in a parking lot, at three pm, ninety degrees outside

i wished that it would burn your taste off

so, i wouldn’t feel it

i tried to cut my lips off

the traitorous pair 

betraying my every wish to stop and run away

my hands need a sawdust bath

my legs could be fine sitting miles away from here

 on a boat to antarctica 

anywhere from here, this body

this mind

this guilt

anywhere would be perfectly suitable

for a shameless girl like me

Memories From June 1st

Maybe for kicks, we’ll dance for ourselves. 

Around the kitchen, while waiting for the pasta water to boil 

For laughs, we’ll sing karaoke to “Build Me Up Buttercup”. 

And maybe tonight, we’ll watch the fireflies in the yard and laugh when my dog tries to eat one. 

in three days, I’ll look back on this evening 

Sitting in a lonely dorm room 

And pray that someone would come and take me back to that moment. 

Religiously Unreligious

They

Shake a fist to the sky

Spit on the grave of a saint

Roll their eyes at the tomfoolery of church bells and altar boys

Blame the institution

Blame the higher power

Use the Lord’s name in vain- but don’t allow His name settle on the top of their tongues

I

Am religiously unreligious, but I fall far from the fallacy

Of violence and shame and general unpleasantness

I say, Let the people have their bread and wine

I’ll sit in the back having mine

Our minds may work differently

And our prayers may go to different ears

But we bleed the same

And live in the cemetery

Of flesh, blood and a pumping heart