The ethics of bingeing

At a conference I once attended, a woman with pink hair presented a paper on the ethics of bingeing on TV shows. She argued (and I paraphrase what I understood) that given that several TV shows are engaging with topical ethical issues, bingeing could be seen as an immersion in ethical dilemmas and not a retreat. While this is an attractive proposition, someone in the audience pointed out that bingeing today may involve engaging with complex ethical issues, but it doesn’t really go beyond that into actual political action. It remains a solitary, self satisfying act.

I’ve been off TV for a while. For one, I prefer reading and V hogs the TV (we have only one in the house, shocker!) and because I have alternative entertainment in the form of books I’ve never really fought it (except when he started watching Trump’s antics through the prism of Fox News that is). Then we discovered streaming software and I slowly got back into TV, partly fueled by the fact that there is really a lot of excellent TV being produced.

My current mental state also means that I need an escape route. So yeah, I’m not one of those claiming any ethical dimension to my TV indulgence. It is escapism pure and simple. TV helps me ignore the claims and worries of real life by projecting me into other worlds and giving me other things to think about.

If I’m honest, books do the same for me and probably always have. V was the first person to suggest to me that there was nothing intrinsically noble about reading and it was just escape. I don’t entirely agree. Books stretch the imaginative faculties in a way that TV doesn’t – which probably accounts for why TV has been my escapism of choice lately, it’s just easier. Ironically, I can finish a good book faster than I can watch an entire TV series (I can’t/don’t watch on the MTR or at uni, instead I read recaps and analyses of the episodes). Also finding the right book is also challenging. I do have some ideas in mind, but it involves a trek to the library. Yeah boo effing hoo I have a library system at my fingertips but don’t seem to have the time for a ten minute walk. I also still have vestigial guilt about reading anything not PhD related or more recently unrelated to the courses I’m prepping for. Reading is not free from worry and need to work.

So yeah for probably the first time in my history, TV is taking precedence as a form of relaxation and all I can say is:

A) who would’ve thunk?

b) I’m grateful. Grateful that a medium of such entertainment exists. Grateful for streaming services that are like a cave of treasures for the taking.

Not grateful for the problems I’m trying to escape but they are admittedly not life and death.

This too is another change. I used to want to tackle things head on, wrestle with them mentally and figure out What To Do. Now as more things seek beyond my control, I’m leaning towards Let It Be. However, I’m not evolved enough to just LIB without some kind assistance. Enter the Idiot Box – the 20th C’s own form of therapy lite.

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Life without control

I have not yet mastered the art of letting go of the things I cannot control. If anything, I have become more anxious, or at least I am conscious of my anxiety, or there are more things to be anxious about. Or less things that I can control.

For example, when applying for jobs, I worry about what if this one calls me before that, will I accept, but what if? Which is all pointless because a) noone calls b) if they call, would it have done me any good to be worrying about all the possibilities and permutations and combinations before the fact. To be fair, I worry about these things because I want to figure out whether to apply at all. Why apply, if I won’t accept. But I only won’t accept if a number of other things fall into place, which I have no way of predicting. So.

I have always said that having kids is an exercise in losing control. This feeling of basically having to let go and go with the flow (even if the flow is basically getting no sleep, or having to sling your baby and carry her around 24/7 because she will not be put down. The alternative is to run from pillar to posts for solutions that basically stop being relevant just when you found them because the baby has moved on to a new problem). I never quite got the hang of this loss of control or at least, I never got over the resentment of having to lose control, but thankfully, the babies grew up, and gave in to a modicum of a routine. Of course, modicum is the operative word.

My kids are older, but they are unpredictable. One of the unpredictable things is there health. Last year, Nene has been sick one every month, if not more. He basically has a permanent stuffy nose (like allergies, but to what we don’t know, likely the air which we have no control over and I do not possess a husband who believes in the expat solutions of air purifier, special cleaning of aircon with tea tree oil, what not), which at some point degenerates into a bacterial infection/tonsilitis. Mimi’s health has been pretty robust – being around a sick brother notwithstanding – but occasionally she falls sick too. And then, there’s me. So there are three variables that cannot be controlled, and doctors visits and care etc which all takes time, which in between trying to finish writing a dissertation and apply to jobs and write a proposal for a postdoc that will anyway not consider me (and which now is not posting the recruitment ad eveb) and prepping for the poorly paid jobs I’ve been offered, is time I barely have. Even with hired help at home.

I am sorry to say that the time before last that Nene fell sick I collapsed into a blubbering mass because I just did not have the time to take him to the doctor. Again. Then I felt guilty about that.

But today I did better. Today when each of my children complained of some ailment that would require a trip to two separate doctors, requiring me yet again to reschedule my carefully laid plans for the day, I took a deep breath and went with it. Sequenced the events in my head – prep helper to get appointment for local pediatrician in case ENT for Mimi doesn’t work out, call ENT on repeat in the morning and request afternoon appointment so I do not have to cancel lunch meeting with former boss, if afternoon is not available, cave and take whatever appointment, but resist urge to contact former boss until this has been confirmed. Once inevitably only 2 pm appointment is available, accept it and cancel lunch. Go with Mimi to Central to ENT to be told she has middle ear infection, but basically it could have been diagnosed by pediatrician (but what if it coudn’t have so good I did ENT and saved myself two potential visits, at least I’m covered by insurance), head back and work on bibliography while Nene plays with cars on my leg, only snapping at him when he jabs at my keyboard and basically erases entire bibliography which I thankfully am able to recover, then dither over whether to send Nene to doctor with helper because the doctor will give the same medication anyway, cave to guilt and take himself, bring home the same medication including one dodgy looking cream that I’m not sure I want him to apply, dither over whether to sacrifice run in favour of packing for next day’s minibreak which I probably should not go on because of all these doctor’s visits but it’s the summer vacation…

The thing with kids is that I cannot afford to procrastinate on my own stuff. When time is mine, I have to work like a horse, because I have no idea at what inopportune time the interruption will come. How do working parents with no flexibility do it, I wonder? But I know. I was that parent. You do what you can. You don’t feel guilty because you don’t have a choice. Because I seemingly have ‘the time’, I am plagued by endless claims on it. But it is finite and so am I. Nobody else seems to understand this.

I am not good at making decisions on the fly because I want to agonise over the perfect one. I am getting better at deciding something and then squeezing my eyes shut down on the what ifs. Today I managed this, even with the PMS hormones raging and threatening to take me down into sadland. Of this I am proud.

Gratitude

A couple of years ago, I started doing a gratitude challenge on Instagram. In addition to helping me focus on the good parts of each day, when I analysed what I had been grateful for over the month, there were some surprising results.

This year, I decided to do it again. This time, I must admit, I didn’t reflect on my day as much. Because the challenge overlapped with my India holiday, I lost track. I also tended to focus on the prompt and to take pictures to reflect the prompt, because it’s not necessary to stick to the order of the prompts. I think the whole thing was more haphazard this year, but also one thing was evident to me.

I am most grateful for my children. They are a huge source of happiness in my life. Their presence, the charming things they say, the way they enable me to see the world with fresh eyes and push me out of my comfort zone, getting me to do stuff I end up enjoying but that I would otherwise not have tried or been too lazy to actually do.

As a person who was never into kids, this is a huge and unexpected change in my personality and life. It is why I encourage people to have at least one kid, one’s situation allowing for this of course. By this, I don’t mean that I go about evangelizing the need for people to have children, but if someone who is ambivalent asks my opinion on the subject, my answer is usually positive. I agree that I am fortunate to have great help in raising my children, but had that not been the case, I would still advocate having one child, again if one’s general life situation allows for it.

I am sure there are people out there that regret their decision to have kids, and that these narratives need to be told and heard too.

In my case, though, despite the stresses that children put on my body, my finances, my marriage, my lifestyle, my emotional and mental wellbeing, overall, when I do a cost-benefit analysis, the sheer joy, breath of learning and general fun they bring to my life trumps the negatives.

PS: The second thing that I seem most grateful for is my job, the opportunity to do the PhD. The third is probably living in Hong Kong. This is just my overall impression.

Resolution

This Next year I’m keeping it simple. Just one thing to do:

1. Shut the fuck up.
2. Zip it.
3. Count to 10.
4. Breathe deeply.
5. Think Inner Poise.
6. Swallow the rage until it forms a bitter little ball in the stomach but as long as the exterior is Lake Placid, all is well.

Etc.

Girls

I finally caught up with Season 5. [Spoiler Ahead, read at your own discretion]

V happened to walk in on me watching the epic fight between Adam and Jessa. “Is this where you learn your drama?” he said, or something to that effect. “No, I’m dramatic because I’m like these people,” I said. “Angsty.”

Girls, for all its crazy, presents the ideal of kind of friendship – where people drift but tey come back, sliding into bed next to their sleeping friend with the confidence that they will be accepted.

On the other hand, Girls presents some unrealistically narcissistic people. In one scene, Shoshana is in a bar with her new boyfriend and a guest, and she has some earth-shattering epiphany, and while her boyfriend is in the loo tells the other girl, “I have to go home” and leaves. This might have been excusable as a once in a lifetime thing but this happens on this show with alarming frequency. People decide they are in the midst of some emotional upheaval and just have to leave. No matter how dramatic I am, I think waiting and explaining why you have to leave is essential.

Back to friendship though, at one point Adam accuses Jessa of siding with Hannah even though Hannah is selfish blah blah blah. And Jessa says, “Yes, that is what friendship is.” That is, friendship doesn’t mean always liking the person you’re friends with. This was an important insight for me.

 

Troubling the binary

In philosophy, it has been pointed out how Western language, culture and myths rest on a series of binaries – black/white, male/female/, good/bad, soul/body, mind/matter etc. Jacques Derrida pointed out that what is insidious about these binaries is that one term is also negative  or devalued. Feminists have pointed out how the devalued term is often associated with the feminine.

On the one hand, consciousness rests on a separation of the self from the other. To understand something one has to understand what it is not. Or so we are told. One of the philosophical questions I’ve been preoccupied with is whether there are cultures that do not think in binaries. While Eastern cultures, like Indian and Chinese philosophy are better in this regard, when you can to originary stories, you are back at binaries.

The other day I was reading one of those Mr Men books to Nene (my kids love these books although I sometimes have problems with their messages, this is again one of those instances when I cannot find it in me to censor my kids’ choices). The book was about a guy called Mr Dizzy, which is a polite way of calling him Mr Stupid, because his defining quality was that he answered basic questions wrong.

For example, “what is the opposite of black?” “Pink,” said Mr Dizzy, and everyone laughed.

“So what is the opposite of black” I asked Nene.

He paused. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Nothing.”

I was about to say “white” and then stopped myself. I realised that my child had broken the binary. Or rather, that he did not think in binaries. That is was possible to not think in binaries. The opposite of black could be anything or nothing. It was not necessary for there to be an opposite at all.

I suddenly realised that thinking in binaries is not natural or instinctive. Or at least not universal. Like everything else, we learn it and we internalise it and then we say it was always there.

Emotion commotion

So I’ve decided I have problems with my emotions. This is weird, because I used to be the most emotionally controlled person for the better part of my life – till I was about 21. It’s been downhill from there. From what I recall, I had a pretty calm adolescence, so either I’m going through a late teenage phase or early menopause (personally, I’d prefer the latter because I really want to stop getting my period).

1. A lot of things stress me out. They could range from an email which asks for corrections in my paper (admittedly this was the third email and I was getting fed-up and taking it personally when maybe it wasn’t personal) to Mimi’s drama to having to do something I’m not familiar with (like plan a trip). This is not new. I think I was always subliminally a high stress person but just concealed it very well, and now the cracks are showing.
2. I flare up easily and hotly. This is new. I date it to the most heated phase in my marriage when V would go stone cold like a wall, and I would feel like I had to turn up the drama to get his attention. However, now it’s become a habit and I really need to reign it in. The underlying causes haven’t gone away, but they aren’t severe enough to warrant some of my reactions.
3. I am thin skinned. Just this morning I forgot the card that lets my into our building and I tried to wave to the security guard to let me in. Initially, she was smiling because she knows me but when she realised I didn’t have my card, she kept smiling but didn’t open the door. I understand that she’s only doing her job, but she should have tried to communicate something instead of just smiling vacantly into space. For some reason, this upset me inordinately and I had to work to get a grip and not let this incident take over my mood. This tendency is worse when there are other things bothering me in the background. I feel like I cannot bear even the slightest shit that life throws my way.

I’m thinking this is not normal. Or is it just that everyone goes through this but I’m just unduly concerned. I feel that I need to regress into my childhood botness though and attain some emotional detachment. How to do this I’m not sure. The irony is that I realise that I’ve turned into Mimi, or she’s turned into me. While I’m not as dramatic as her, and most of the time, strangers don’t get to see my inner turmoil (then again, Mimi is fairly well behaved among strangers), I’m an adult and (probably?) should be doing better.

Friendships yet again

Yes, again! Hopefully, the last but this seems to be the topic on my mind at the mo.

But this time, I’m not thinking about me (except tangentially).

On Sunday, I took the kids to the park and there were a group of girls playing in the corner my two usually play in. What’s more the girls had used some of the rocks and stones the kids usually play with and creating a very interesting arrangement of leaves and flowers.

My kids ran over while I hung back, or tried to, until I could no longer stand the fact that my kids were barging into a game where they were clearly not wanted (one of the girls had told them “to go away”). When I asked Nene and Mimi to leave that group alone and play somewhere else, the immediately got mutinous. Nene started demanding that the girls give back their rocks and Mimi went so far as to go and grab some.

I was wondering what to do, when the girls ran off. When they didn’t return after a while, I let Nene and Mimi take back one of their rocks. I tried to distract them by asking them to make chutney with leaves. Then one of the girls came back and asked if they had taken their rocks.

Mimi said no, then yes. Then Mimi said: “Do you want to be our friend?” Her approach is so direct. She has used this line after I urged her to ask another child to play. This girl hesitated and said: “I don’t speak English very good.” Mimi spent five minutes babbling about English and Chinese until I gently suggested she ask her her name.

The girls were now in the maze and Mimi ran off after them. I decided to stand and watch. Nene climbed a wall and was watching too: “I know you want to play with them,” I said to Nene. He nodded sadly. It looked like Mimi was getting included. “Okay go,” I said. He ran to them.

Within five minutes they were all playing together. The girls brought me leaves for my chutney. They showed my kids some little crabs they had caught in a plastic bowl. The language didn’t seem to matter, though as inevitably happens they were speaking English. I guess because my kids have so little Chinese but every Chinese kid has some English, the latter becomes the lingua franca.

The experience taught me that I need to hang back more. Kids friendships are not like adult friendships. They come together more easily. They have their own way to breaking in and negotiating. If they get rejected, it’s painful to watch, but they get over it.

Maybe I remember too much of my own childhood. I had a couple of lonely years in primary school that are etched into my memory. I remember rejections clearly. I try to protect my kids from these. But maybe I don’t need to. They are capable of dusting themselves off better than me.

Here’s a picture of the lot of them:

 

 

Unoriginal remarks of our times

[Inspired by a conversation with MinCat.]

A couple of remarks that one hears so frequently that one just wants to bite one’s fist with boredom:

1. “You know me, I’m flaky like that.”
   You will not believe the number of people that spout this one or its variants. Or maybe you will believe because you have likely either been at the receiving end of this or one of those who uses it to get out of behaving like an adult who actually commits to things and follows up on that commitment. The point is, it is not just this one special snowflake that is flaky, but enough people for it to start seeming like an epidemic. I am writing this to cure those out there who believe that they are charmingly “flaky like that” to realise that they are a) not alone b) not charming.
   It is for people like this that I developed the three-strikes rule. It is a highly efficient way of saving myself the energy of planning around such a person. I just cannot even. You flake, you bake in my book.
   For me, flaking repeatedly is an indication of a) not caring enough (which needs to be responded to in kind, unless one is completely sure one adores this person to cope with their dilettantism) b) an immature emotional and intellectual development (which does not bode well for friendship). So.

2.  “I’m not a girly girl. I don’t really get along with girls. They’re so bitchy. I get along with boys better.”

Yes, lady, you and the other 300,000 female souls out there. So many women these days seem allergic to other women that it’s a mystery that the concept of girlfriends exists at all.

Guess what? The phenomenon of wanting to hang out with the socially more powerful group is not new. Women are bitchy and catty because they have always had to fight for the crumbs of power. You disdain them for that and want to play with the big boys. We get it.

Just as long as you know that you’re not original, nor do you somehow become a bigger person by hanging out with the boys, carry on. I’ll enjoy that soul-affirming conversation with my girls because you know what, hanging out with other women is not all cat and mouse. Sometimes it’s kittens in a basket purring.

Home can be two

10 March is Tibetan National Uprising day. A friend posted this poem on Facebook:

The Tibetan in Mumbai
is not a foreigner.

He is a cook
at a Chinese takeaway.
They think he is Chinese
run away from Beijing.

He sells sweaters in summer
in the shade of the Parel Bridge.
They think he is some retired Bahadur.

The Tibetan in Mumbai
abuses in Bambaya Hindi,
with a slight Tibetan accent
and during vocabulary emergencies
he naturally runs into Tibetan.
That’s when the Parsis laugh.

The Tibetan in Mumbai
likes to flip through the MID-DAY,
loves FM, but doesn’t expect
a Tibetan song.

He catches the bus at a signal,
jumps into a running train,
walks into a long dark gully
and nestles in his kholi.

He gets angry
when they laugh at him
“ching-chong-ping-pong”.

The Tibetan in Mumbai
is now tired,
wants some sleep and a dream.
On the 11pm Virar Fast,
he goes to the Himalayas.
The 8.05am Fast Local
brings him back to Churchgate
into the Metro: a New Empire.

— Tenzin Tsundue

It’s a reminder of the alienation that exiles feel. And the complicity of ‘locals’ in that.

Strangely, when I read the poem, my dominant feeling was homesickness. [And I fully recognize here that there is no parity between my homesickness and that of the Tibetan in exile. My homesickness is marked by the transnational privilege to return – home for me is a just a flight away, an expensive one that precludes frequent returns, but the possibility is open.]

There was a time when this homesickeness would trouble me, not for the fact of it, but because when I moved to Hong Kong, I felt the need to pick a side. And after five years in Hong Kong I picked Hong Kong. The end. Or so I thought.

Last month, I gave a lecture on Salman Rushdie’s essay Imaginary Homelands, in which he talks about writing in the diaspora. I reflected on an incident that happened when I was in Bombay in December. Or rather, as I was leaving Bombay. As the plane was taking off, I pointed out the city spread out below us to Nene who was peering out of the airplane window. Suddenly, I trailed off. V, who was sitting in the row behind us, poked me and whispered, “Are you crying?” And I realised that I was. Ten years after leaving Bombay, I realised that some roots are never severed. Something is always left behind.

I have finally realised that home can be two or more places. On does not have to pick a side. When I leave Hong Kong, there will be a part of me that will keen for it. I have put down roots here too. My ties to Bombay are the ties of birth, the ties of familiarity, of blending in, of roads that can be navigated unconsciously. My ties to Hong Kong are the comfort of safety and ease, the exhileration of the aesthetic beauty of the skyline and the buzz of the international, the jolt of the strange, and the nostalgia of the early years of marriage and learning to be an adult. If Bombay is family, Hong Kong is a friend.

I lived two years in Hyderabad too. I should have put down roots there. But I didn’t. The city didn’t take to me and I to it. I fled every opportunity I could, and when I had no reason to be there any longer, I packed my things and never looked back.