Category Archives: Where Are You From

Themes of Identity

A Year In Atlanta: Home, Community, and Work

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Magic Is Something You Make

My journal cover exclaims, “Magic is something you make.” It has been a year and a week since I returned to Atlanta. The moments I recorded in my journal attest to the magic and mayhem of my making. The past week in review speaks to the efforts of the year. On Tuesday, April 11, 2023, I led 15 hungry cyclists to my favorite Indian restaurant in Decatur. That Thursday, I added a third bookshelf to the collection at my townhouse. On Saturday, by dumb chance and good luck, I spent an afternoon sailing Lake Lanier with friends. Finally, I joined local Bike Grid enthusiasts for a slow roll up Peachtree Street Sunday. The magic is ON, and I continue to cast a few designs forward.

Bikers Can Boat

On April 11, 2022, I shipped my collection of old journals and mementos from my ex-boyfriend’s apartment in Tokyo to my mother’s home in Tucker. Shortly after that, at customs & control in Narita, I turned in my Japanese residence card. Then, with both anxiety and goals as carry-ons, I set off to my hometown. My three-prong goals for Atlanta were: to make a home, participate in the community, and to do meaningful work. Here are my thoughts on a few critical magic milestones from this return.

1. Home

For the first five months of my return, I took up a garden-facing room at my mother’s house. Over the pandemic and in Japan, I had longed for an oven. Beyond that, my ideas of home were transformed by my experience going from a 1,100 square foot house (Bluffton, South Carolina) to a 200 square foot efficiency (Suginami-ku, Tokyo). The Atlanta I returned to was (is?) in a white-hot housing market. Things were expensive and going fast. I wanted something cozy and inside the perimeter.

Eventually, I bought a townhouse in a Chamblee-area community to store my books and souvenirs. In this complex, I can hear birds chirp from nearby woods while I drink coffee in the mornings. On the grounds in the rear of the property is a park that follows a creek that later connects to more water. This place is a great place to get my footing.

2. Community

In pre-COVID Tokyo, I was part of a thriving international community of ex-pats. My social silence grew as our gathering spaces and social outlets diminished post-Pandemic. I missed eavesdropping in the grocery line and making conversations with strangers. On returning to America, I looked forward to creating and being in community again.

Desi Decatur Ride

Through a CouchSurfing(CS) event last summer, I made friends with a group of the Atlanta cycling community. Through group riding here, I have found another sort of home. Atlanta by bike looks different. I began to appreciate the nitty-gritty needs for cycle infrastructure. On the Beltline, cruising through the newly connected areas of Atlanta, it is much easier to see historically underfunded areas in the grip of gentrification. My cyclist amigos share a sense of civic duty. We made good chit-chat with a city official on our Sunday ride. As we deepen community relationships through fun and advocacy, I suspect I will continue to appreciate the new takes on Atlanta.

 

 

3. Meaningful Work

When I left the US in 2017, I was tired of the direct services legal work I had been doing in southern Georgia (across the river from Bluffton, SC, where I lived at the time). Thankfully, the sabbatical from law practice (and respite from Trump) brought me a new way to examine my professional capabilities. From there, I found joy in teaching, coaching, and consulting.

Along the Beltline

Time in Tokyo also transformed what I dared to envision for Atlanta (granted, Atlanta may never be as progressive. It sits in red Georgia, after all.) Upon my return last year, I started attending seminars at the intersection of housing and justice. I volunteered for a conference where I met GSU Professor and Housing Scholar Dan Immergluck and got a copy of his book Red Hot City. Atlanta’s car-centeredness points to the complex interplay of transport, housing, and access. In another seminar, I crossed paths with an old Atlanta CS friend who was Dan’s student and just finished his master’s in urban studies. At such a seminar, I learned about the movement to Stop Cop City. Finally, through the right partnerships, I feel lucky to have identified work for a community-based small-scale developer in Atlanta bringing affordable housing to under-developed parts of the city.

4. Tough Stuff

One of the most challenging parts of my move has been the saga of my journals. Since age 7, I have intermittently written words in journals to deal with life, changes, and reflections. In Tokyo, I took on the task of reading and notating about 25 lbs of handwritten diaries. Unfortunately, those journals I sent from Japan last year did not make it to Tucker—thanks to the US Postal Service. Then, to add salt to the wound, my family lost three generations of jewelry in a burglary from my mother’s home around Christmas time. As I figure out how to carry these losses, I am grateful that I can still appreciate what is in front of me now.

Boats or Bikes?

From my complex’s backwoods, we can eventually get to Briarcliff Road. My family has lived on various parts of this road during our 30+ years in Atlanta. If you take Briarcliff Road and travel on it south, you can eventually see the changes brought about by the Beltline. In a sense, I rode back home without knowing precisely what it would bring.

Opening up to a breeze can refresh your room or your life. The capacity to restore is at the heart of my beliefs and hopes about home. To live as you dream requires determination. It helps to have supporters and to build in community. Reflecting on the intermittent roller coaster of the last year, I feel blessed to have found a warm sense of community. After long perseverance, I am engaged in work that I believe makes the world a better place. Finally, as I continue my personal mission of flourishing to the bounds of my human potential, I hope to make more time to write and share as I organize, educate, and empower.

Fun with Flowers

Atlanta, Inc: How to Fail Your Constituents

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Atlanta Police

Last year when I returned to Atlanta, I began participating in seminars, conferences, and public hearings. In many ways, the city I returned to looks shinier and hip. Yet, I find myself trying to make sense of Atlanta and why it operates less like a city and more like a corporate playground. As a practicing attorney, I often realized that the legal system is grounded in preserving the interests of the haves over the have-nots. In Atlanta, I see that the city’s actions and policies also have this same predisposition. Community activism and concern for the public good first took me to law school. It inspires me to write, advocate and elevate dissent to this day.

 

Regarding housing and public safety, I find myself woefully embarrassed by Atlanta, Inc. While Atlanta claims to be “a city too busy to hate,” this is essentially trite lip service. The former home of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. overwhelmingly has forgotten the message of economic and social justice. In the decade since I have lived in the city, Atlanta housing has become increasingly expensive, police abuses have escalated, and corporations are continuously placated. Together, these concerns have brought me to re-double my activism in demanding more from city officials.

 

On Housing

Atlanta Affordable Housing

 

City Kick Backs to Corporates

While Money magazine concluded that Atlanta is the best place to live in its 2022 list, it also pointed out Atlanta’s failures in housing. At a multi-disciplinary seminar on Atlanta, I heard from globally renowned Urban Studies scholar and Georgia State Professor Dan Immergluck. His new book Red Hot City highlights various LOST opportunities to improve the availability of affordable housing in Atlanta. Consequently, over two decades, Atlanta has intentionally grown whiter and wealthier. Thanks to ill-conceived incentives for developers, Atlanta has deprived its public coffers. City leadership has lined developers’ wallets with unnecessary incentives like tax credits and kickbacks. To add insult to injury, Atlanta fails to tax commercial properties effectively. In doing so, they deprive the city of funding for well-publicized affordable housing promises. By and large, the product of these stupid policies has been to impoverish public finances, gentrify historically black neighborhoods, and intentionally attract only higher-end developments.

 

Georgia and the Love of Corporate Landlords

 

To make matters worse, the largely Republican-backed Georgia legislator is cozy with real estate interests. As a result, Georgia has some of the worst tenant protections in the country. As Georgia is considered largely landlord-friendly, it has attracted institutional investors looking for the easiest way to make money with the lowest overhead. Consequently, the Atlanta housing market has seen an uptick in displacement in neighborhoods targeted by out-of-state investors. Since local jurisdictions are pre-empted from rent stabilization and other tenant reforms, the state has one of the highest rates of evictions in the country. With the changes in the housing market post-pandemic, the situation has gotten worse. There are not enough units available at either affordable or gouging prices. Altogether, Atlanta is a tough rental market for a newly transplanted employee due to its costs and few tenant protections.

 

 

On Public Safety

Behind Bullets and Bullshit

Stop Cop City

George Floyd’s murder in 2020 brought a global reckoning for changes in policing. Not long after Black Lives Matter rallies were held across the country, in June 2022, an officer of the Atlanta Police Department (APD) killed Rayshard Brooks, a black man who was trying to sleep in his car at a Wendy’s. Atlanta erupted in righteous protest afterward. The Wendy’s was burned to the ground; the police chief stepped down. Such actions are not new. The APD has consistently eroded the public trust and undermined or neglected to provide for the safety of black and brown residents of Atlanta. Even regional policing authorities have used illegal tactics and excessive use of force without substantive consequences.

 

In the wake of Rayshard’s murder and the countrywide cries to reform policing, Atlanta responded to #DefundthePolice with the exact opposite. Through the Atlanta Police Foundation and corporate backers (see Mainline for an excellent summary of the Atlanta police-prison industrial complex), the creation of a police safety training center was announced. Behind closed doors, in an undemocratic and widely criticized process, police supporters and the Buckhead community agreed to a perverse plan to build this facility on a former prison farm and in a tract of lush forest. This project, dubbed ‘Cop City, ‘ would use millions of precious public funds to build a state-of-the-art facility without addressing how the police will remedy their abuses on black and brown communities.

 

Since Cop City plans were announced, a broad coalition has coalesced in contesting these plans. Environmentalists, abolitionists, and community advocates have taken to the forest to protect it from development. Tensions have escalated since the plan was announced in 2021. Police-led raids of the forest have intentionally destroyed a community kitchen, campsites, and a mutual-aid operation. In December 2022, a protestor was murdered by police in the Atlanta Forest. While some agencies wear body cameras, no agency has provided the public with body camera footage. Despite training and equipment, the police again have failed Atlanta’s citizens.

 

In response, Cop City protestors held a rally in downtown Atlanta. In one of the country’s most surveilled cities, the police grabbed up random protestors and charged them with being `domestic terrorists.` The state agencies charged and funded to protect the community are working to terrorize the public. While it is unlikely the domestic terrorism charges will stick, they may have quelled some first-amendment dissent. In light of the repeated failures of policing in Atlanta, it is comical that Atlanta police agencies should deign to train other police officers.

Part of Atlanta Forest

Atlanta: Rooms for Improvement

 

Atlanta has some new bikeable paths and a few posh multi-use developments. Still, it seems that the city is more interested in boosterism for developers and corporations than the fate of its public. Instead of falling into despair, I focus on hope and a vision to work on progressive changes in Atlanta. In my attempts to jump into opportunities to improve the city, I have found unique and exciting opportunities to contribute.

In my return to Atlanta, I found many more ideologically aligned organizations doing good work. These inspire me to collaborate and create a path for a better city. For example, the Housing Justice League does community empowerment training for eviction defense and follows legislative reform at the state level. Beyond that, Atlanta is rewriting its zoning code. This is just one of several steps to help solve the housing affordability issue.

 

On the issues of public safety, there is no good reason to build YET another police training facility. Various interests compound to illustrate why Cop City should never be built. Instead of diverting funding from police, my hometown wants to eliminate a precious green space for a corporate-funded police playground. To that end, numerous organizations are fighting for justice. Community Movement Builders, a group aligned with the dissent against Cop City, recently trained legal observers with the help of the National Lawyers Guild.

 

Advocacy for sound policy and justice requires the courage to lead and take chances. Atlanta has always been a city of hustle and corporate climbing. I am reminded that the premise behind governance is the public good. Occasionally our public officials need to hear the citizenry to remind them. Only in this way can we expect accountability for the work of providing for all its citizens.

 

If you are interested in following along in my activism, please follow me on Twitter.

 

Home: Sweet Home

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Home: Sweet Home

You can live in a tiny house, a mansion, or even in the woods. Any of these can be a home. Home has a special place in the heart and in the law. Both our idiom of “Home sweet home” and the ideas behind stand your ground defense share their foundation in the specialness of home. Well, what exactly is it? What takes a house and makes it a home? I want to understand the feeling that comes over me when I arrive home. So, searching for answers to this question, I began contemplating what it takes to make a home.

Last year, in early 2022, I was in Hawaii, checking out what it would be like to make a home there. I ditched that idea after a 3-month stint in paradise.  Then, in April 2022, after stopping in Tokyo to pick up my belongings, I returned to my hometown Atlanta. As I searched Atlanta for a place to make my own, I lived with my family. During the last few months of 2022, I bought a townhouse; now, I am making it a home. I have come to see these essentials in a home:  a sacred physical space, an aliveness, a place of belonging, and a sense of safety.

Waking Up in a Westphalia: Adventures

 

The Sticks, Bricks, or Stones

Inside the classic American home, there are perhaps two adults and maybe two kids. The family living in the traditional American home and their possessions are the second element of a home. They are the aliveness. Not the number of bathrooms nor the tile backsplash, but the gathered little details of daily life bring a place alive. A house needs activity to be a home. A home is a place that celebrates and supports the lives of the people living there. It is easy to note the absence of homeliness in an austere Airbnb or a poorly staged home for sale. They are spaces without a living, pulsing component. A home’s lived-in-ness is my favorite visual feature of a house. The toiletries, book collection, and mementos bring home alive. Those little lived-in details like an out-of-place coffee mug and family photos make a house a home.

Beyond the physical space and life items in it, two psychological aspects make a house a home. A sense of belonging is the first. This is home where the heart is. The idea that you can be who you are. That mental sense that you belong. Whether in the family or with roommates, that sense of relaxation in your surroundings. A home is where you can be comfortable in your skin. It is a place to recharge your spirit from the trials of life. I think people mean this when they recite “home sweet home.” It is coming, physically and metaphorically, into a place of love.

 

Patio over Courtyard

Take Off Your Boots

The building is in place, life knick-knacks included, a big heartful family is there, the last element to make a house a home is a sense of safety. It is precisely this sense of safety that one seeks in a home. For us humans to thrive, we need a safe place. This desire for safety includes knowing that your things will be there when you return. That people will not hurt you at home. Your home will protect you from the elements. It is a feeling that puts you in a state of calm. You can be at ease if you have normally been hyper-vigilant out in the world. The idea is that you can be in your home without being physically accosted, evicted, or bothered.

In this way, what is unnerving about having your home broken into it is a violation of your sacred space. When I visit my mother’s home, I appreciate her physical space. It is an enormous house. Our family photos remind us of the moments we celebrate. While I sense I belong, there is a strange quality at my family home. But it no longer feels safe. In reflecting on what we lost in the burglary last month, it is overwhelmingly the loss of a sense of safety.

In this feeling, then, I feel united with many other Atlantans. I sense the dis-ease around a family behind on rent. I can understand what it would be like to distrust a roommate. It feels odd to have traveled the world with relatively few mishaps and then returning home to so quickly lose a sense of safety. Beyond my immediate family, I find this loss of safety reflected of our country at large.

Hawaii Boat House: Not At Sea

Who is Safe Now?

My eyes are open to a very late recognition.  So many others live without that sense of security. I did not fully appreciate the depth and breadth of the Black Lives Matter movement. At it its crux, I now understand. The lives of so many Americans do not feel safe. I sense that the response is the growth in the abolitionist perspective. Mutual aid and community organizers are moving on this principle. Last month, `authorities` slashed tents and encampments in the South River Forest of Atlanta. The exact entity charged with the social (but not LEGAL duty) to protect is actively working to destroy a sense of safety in south Dekalb. If we do not feel safe in the American status quo, we must unite to create a sense of security. For me, then, this is the pressing question of our times. If life in the natural order is nasty, brutish, and short (according to Rosseau), where is the golden place where we can belong, be safe, and have the physical space to nourish our life activities?

DeKalb County Police: Who do you serve?

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On Monday night, December 19th, I had the misfortune of needing to call the Dekalb County Police to my mother’s house. We (my mother, stepfather, aunt & uncle, and I) had just returned from a joyous gathering where we met my cousin’s newborn daughter Amara, ate a late lunch, laughed, and played cards for a few hours. When we arrived back at my mother’s a bit before 8 pm, we saw that her home had been burglarized. After I called the police, we all anxiously waited downstairs, hoping no burglar remained in the house.

DeKalb County Police

It took over half an hour for the police to arrive. We realized that night that we had lost three generations of unique Indian jewelry, a coin collection, a safe the size of a college fridge, and a lot of faith. My very sense of security is shaken. Beyond that, what I witness in my local law enforcement: the complete lack of urgency, care, and competence, is most shocking. When I combine their response here to  Dekalb County Police actions in the South River Forest on the opposite end of town, I am perplexed. I wonder WHO actually does Dekalb County serve? What JUSTICE does the symbol on their police crest actually represent?

 

Dekalb County Police: Paid to Do Nothing?

Back to Monday night, the 19th, once the initial two police officers arrived, they did a sweep of our home. After a cursory look around, one of the officers left without notice! No one took photos, walked outside, or fingerprinted the house. I was a bit confused, and as the other Officer, Officer M, left, he gave us a card containing a case number. On the car, conspicuously unfilled on the card, was where Officer M was supposed to provide his PHONE NUMBER. Noticing that, I insisted that Officer M. take my phone number instead, so that at least one line of communication could be established. Luckily, in just a few minutes, Officer M called me to clarify some detail for his report. He happened to be sitting outside the house in his car, and as we talked, he decided to come back inside our home.

On this second entry, I asked Officer M how the burglars entered the home. As we were discussing and trying to figure out how the burglary happened (we had to figure that out ourselves), we decided, by chance, to look at the backyard. We discovered damage to the home’s exterior, where the burglars (presumably) exited and entered the house. Broken ceramic pots and glass shards sprinkled down from the upstairs window. After his second visit to the home, it was only then that Officer M finally called a detective. By now, it was past 10 pm.

After another half hour, a man, presumably the detective on duty, wearing a suit jacket, arrived. This detective did not want to take photos, fingerprints, or blood swabs. I have seen enough Law & Order (in addition to my legal training) to realize we would lose any evidence once the family began cleaning. After locating a few spots of blood over broken glass, we insisted that the detective take at least a blood swab. I actually had to provide the detective with Q-tips, a towel, and a bag so he could collect evidence. Why does a detective have no evidence kit? Beyond the suit jacket, what makes him a detective?  Of course, this detective had no card for us to reach him again.

 

When the two Dekalb Police employees ultimately left us, my family began cleaning. As we did, we wondered how anyone would find the burglars. Without taking photos, evidence, or inspiring any shred of faith in their capacity, I wondered how (if at all) the Dekalb County Police would even try to bring my family justice. They would not take photos nor make any substantive effort to document the condition of my mother’s home. I was left with a card saying a police report would be available in a few days and still maybe longer for a different detective to be assigned to the case. Hanging over us, their overall aura of nonchalance was excruciating. In the four days since, there has been rainy and stormy weather. All traces of blood and any further evidence are gone. Meanwhile, I suspect our family jewelry is getting fenced or re-gifted. Our family still has no assigned detective. We have received no follow-up and no leads. I feel a bit like the Dude in the Big Lebowski. Finally, I realized I would have to do some legwork myself.

 

Dekalb Police: Hired Guns for Developers?

On the other end of town, a much longer yarn has been brewing. On Saturday, immediately preceding the robbery, I attended a solidarity bike ride and rally for the #DefendtheForest movement working to #StopCopCity. The weekend event was a response to Dekalb County Police entering the forest the week before and slashing campers’ tents. Later, the Dekalb County Police arrested tree-sitters and charged them with domestic terrorism. Sending Dekalb County Police to disrupt peaceful protests (on a public park and a mutual aid operation) is a jarring escalation in a long-running dispute. A representative of the Atlanta Solidarity Fund speaks to the sense of shock.

There, at Intrenchment Creek Park, where environmental justice meets economic exploitation, in the less affluent section of Dekalb County, public resources are being spent to further the interests of a developer. Dekalb County tried to pull off a shady land deal with Blackhall Studios. While there is ongoing litigation, an agreement to prevent further destruction of the park is ignored. It appears that Dekalb County Officials are lackadaisical in enforcing the agreement prohibiting Blackhall Studios from working on the property while litigation is pending. Again, who does the Dekalb County Police serve?

What about us?

I suppose I have been a little confused lately. What exactly are our public services for? In the wake of George Floyd’s death, I heard many calls to `Defund the Police.`  I did not fully understand the force behind the idea. Now, I have a direct and personal understanding of the sentiment. While I was on the fence about the idea, I am coming along to appreciate the validity of some abolitionist arguments. I want my local taxes to improve social services and grow the community. I do not see why the police need militarized training and weapons when they won’t bother to do basic investigations and de-escalate conflicts. What exactly is accomplished in having police run around in the newest version of SUVs? Why is this where my money goes?

 

In dealing with this crime, I have turned into our family detective. First, I traced the entryway of the burglars into our home. With the assistance of my neighbors, I pinpointed when the lights came on at our house (while we were not home). Finally, I am keeping an eye out for online sales of potentially fenced jewelry. I managed to do all this while still waiting for updates and even the assignment of an actual detective from Dekalb County Police. Mainly I want to know where is the moral compass behind this agency. Who there is now inspiring any bit of trust?

The Contrast In My Photos Gallery

As I have returned to Atlanta, the kind of crime and drama I notice are incomprehensible. It often feels like I have come from the 1st world in Japan to Atlanta, a war-torn developing country. In Tokyo, I have a lovely memory of a police officer helping me pump air into my bike tires. In Atlanta, I mainly see cops gathered around coffee and donuts. Instead of public institutions, I have turned to my local community. My neighborhood association and the kindness of my larger community are helping me investigate and heal. Please follow along as I witness what goes on in my hometown.

 

Further Reading

Others also seem discontented over Dekalb’s Leadership:

https://www.wsbtv.com/news/local/dekalb-county/business-owners-want-dekalb-leaders-do-something-about-crimes-committed-against-them/REHLLCYK2VCJNOXGQUA73WWQVI/

Latest procedural action in the citizen’s action against the disputed land swap (as of 12/23/22). Emergency Request for TRO on Forest Land

 

An Atlanta Story: Bikes Howling Into the Moon as Cars are Stuck

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The September Full Moon

At midnight on a late summer Saturday night, hip-hop music emanated from the traffic-jammed cars surrounding me as I traveled west along Edgewood Avenue with a bike posse. On my first group bike ride, I was both excited and nervous. This ride was supposed to make it across town and back (over 10 miles). Most car-driving Atlantans would be rightly terrified of biking this route. Car traffic, hills, and potholes are enough to scare the average Atlantan. While I was safely helmeted and well-lit, without the collective courage of this group, I likely would have stayed in the boring bar where I started my night. On my own, I could not have imagined cycling across Atlanta. But for that September Full Moon ride, I could have lived forever in ignorance and boredom in my own hometown.

Our motley crew comprised a ride leader on roller skates followed by cyclists of every race and age. We snaked our way through bumper-to-bumper clubbing traffic on Edgewood as onlookers stared at us. Occasionally, a cheerful drunk would greet us with a smile and a “HEY there!” More often, though, car drivers actively ignored us. They were stuck in gridlock; we cyclists were free to weave between lanes. This small gloat eased some of my tension.

Along with the heat, enthusiasm began climbing out of me. Without the layers of car steel as separation, the bumping music sent electric pulses through my body. My Saturday night fever grew, and I felt part of the night’s clubby scene. My bike and I connected with the groove and felt like I was dancing along with the city.

A Night Ride from M+M

Watch for Plates, Grates, Poles and Assholes

That night, the road hazards that first presented themselves became more apparent. Car drivers seem either distracted, indifferent, or actively vengeful. As we made our way to the west side of town, the occasional smell of Mary Jane and intermittent car honks punctuated our ride. En route, we encountered a sharp left turn and an immediate incline which slowed us all down. A shiny red Dodge Charger got behind the slowest rider (me) and began revving its engine. The car was less than three feet away and intimidating. When I reached the top of the hill, the Dodge and I were waiting at the same red light. As we were stopped together, I told the driver NICELY that his revving was scary. He laughed and told me he was “playing.” Then, the light turned green, and the Charger rolled up his window and sped off. This driver was driving recklessly. I noted the license plate; the other cyclists were unphased. While he was wrong to drive like that, the flow of the evening was so good. The road called us onwards. I let it roll off me as we caught a pleasant downward hill into the west side of town.

 

Summerhill Mural

I recalled my high school prohibition from entering this neighborhood. It was not considered safe when I was growing up. Now, here in the West End, was another happening corner. A few cool venues caused slowed car traffic. A whole line of scantily clad ladies was waiting to get inside a club. Meanwhile, crowds poured from parking lots and meandered along sidewalks to bars and clubs. From my bike, the excitement was palpable. That first ride showed me my old town in a new way. The Beltline has impacted the city incredibly by connecting previously segregated parts of town. Now, there are open public spaces to hang out and chill. Walking paths meet with restaurant patios giving  Atlanta a lively and dynamic vibe. I notice this as I remember my readings about legacy residents being displaced by growing rents, especially in southwest Atlanta.

Full Moon Ride November- L5P

Helpful Humans

After we passed the new westside developments, our group found a monster incline around The Gulch. Here I got a real sense of group ride camaraderie. I was sure my clunker of a vintage Schwinn bike was malfunctioning. I found it lying around in my mother’s garage not too long ago. The bike needed TLC, just as I required instruction for going up hills. Oh my god, the HILLS in this town! As I struggled with matching pace with everyone else, I hopped off my bike to push it up the steep incline. A veteran older rider offered to help me. I dismounted and let him take a look at my gear settings. This form of volunteerism was both refreshing and encouraging for me. As I continued to ride, I noticed that there are many good bike Samaritans among the group rides.

No club, dive bar, or café could meet the zest of cycling through Atlanta’s entertainment district on a Saturday night. After the ride, I felt electric. Every cell in my body demanded I dance, move, groove. Thanks to this ride, I felt thoroughly connected and immersed in the city for the first time since my repatriation. While I developed my passion for bike riding in Tokyo, riding where I grew up is a whole new beast. Since that Saturday night, I haven’t seen the city the same way. Since then, I have been hooked.

Get out the Vote Ride (Midweek Roll)

Bikes with the Final Word

Atlanta does not immediately pose herself as a bike-friendly town. The tenor of car driving is aggressive and irreverent towards human life. The public infrastructure is entirely car-based. For the tiny bit of bike infrastructure, there is very little enforcement. Cyclists are left to fend for their own safety. While mutual aid and camaraderie are the natural results of being relegated by the car culture, the future is increasingly anti-car. Cars are pollutants, dangerous to pedestrian safety, and cost us a time tax. They increase the cost of street maintenance, take up too much parking space, and are expensive to maintain. As the city embraces more progressive demands from its residents, the gospel of bike life is spreading. Until then, Atlanta is a car town with an addictive bike habit.

 

On Boulevard NE and Edgewood Avenue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Desi on Diet & Exercise: Kale Conquest

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A few weeks after moving back to America, I struggled with my re-adjustment. When my energy levels fell and my bowel movements became irregular, I started to consider the recent changes in my lifestyle. My intake of sugars had gone up, and my step count had gone down. I used to get at least 5,000 steps without trying in a Tokyo suburb. In the Atlanta heat, all expeditions require getting into the red Prius. Here, in this semi-suburb, the ease of healthy lunch from Japanese convenience stores gave way to catered, oily late-night Indian meals. As I started driving everywhere and began eating whenever family gathered, my body started to revolt. I started having stomach pains and felt life energy draining from me.

Homemade Biryani

Welcome to America

I am no stranger to the American-lifestyle trap. I had already once noticed that on my trips abroad, I automatically lost weight. In my upbringing, I also have cautionary notes on health and lifestyle. My father was obese and ate with reckless abandon. On both my mother’s and father’s sides of the family, diabetes, heart disease and high blood pressure are ever-present. The combination of genetics and lifestyle has always loomed in my brain as a warning.

In one of our last conversations, I asked my aunt Mohabbat if she had been to Henderson Park (less than a mile from her house). I had visited the park several times to meander and think along its shaded trails. As it was near her home, I wondered if she had seen it. She said she was not in the habit of going out for walks, and it made sense. Where she grew up, it was not common for women to stroll the streets alone. In Pakistan, it could be downright dangerous for a woman to loaf in a park by herself. Here, in Tucker, low mobility and the lack of nutritional know-how are a poor combination for health.

Chai & Samosa Time

I recall my childhood visits to extended family in other cities. It seemed that our mouths were always moving, and not only to talk. We overate meat-based meals and had milky tea with fried and refined sugar snacks. We would complement those meals by sitting on cushy sofas and watching long Bollywood movies on big TVs.  For these aunts and uncles, this type of indulgence was the hallmark of “having made it” in the western world. The migration to America brought affluence and an increased propensity for health problems.

Cleanup On Produce Aisle

Over time, visiting the sick in hospitals, attending funerals, and confronting death have always brought me to reflect on life. In a convoluted way, seeing suffering makes me inspired to live healthier and re-examine my own choices. I grew up overweight and have been so most of my life (minus that summer I was broke and doing a pro-bono legal internship in Los Angeles). Though I carry around some extra pounds, I do not obsess about my weight. For me, body positivity comes first. Being comfortable in your skin and appreciating your unique shape, color, and features have no equal. I can be confident in my external appearance and aware that there are real health concerns with being borderline obese. Carrying around extra weight is a double-edged sword. With such a weight, it is hard to physically enjoy the world’s beauty outside your doorstep. Carrying additional pounds requires more physical effort to enjoy nature. The additional weight also adds pressure to the knees, joints, etc., and thereby increases the probability of stress-related damage.  On top of that, if you are overweight and thin-skinned, there is psychological trauma from a society aggrandizing unhealthy thinness. I strike for a balance, then.

I considered the contrasts. A few months ago, I watched Japanese grandparents riding around on bicycles and buying groceries for a day or two at a time. All along Tokyo, people walk plenty and eat consciously. Here, I drive to Costco and stock up on groceries to feed surprise visitors. Without proselytizing to others, how could I at least get my own choices in order? With the 24-hour kitchen at my family’s home, in what ways could I bring health and discipline to my choices?

Push It!

For my birthday in June, I joined the nearby gym. It may be the best adjustment helper so far. The benefits are multi-fold. I have a great place to decompress and indulge in a swim. Watching others workout around me piqued my curiosity and I have recently learned the kettle ball swing. Instead of feeling depleted after the gym, I find that the prospect of going to work out actually invigorates me. As I began working out regularly, I found my diet is also shaping up. While a lot of delicious processed foods are an arm’s length away, I am enjoying the greens that were hard to find in Japan (Hello arugula and kale!).

To step up the lifestyle improvement a notch, I started a new self-experimentation with intermittent fasting for the month of July. Instead of eating at any and all times of day, I am eating in an 8-hour window, approximately 11 am-7 pm. Even in short-lived experiments, I find a positive lesson. The discipline around eating is a good practice for me. So far, this means I avoid late-night snacking. As a byproduct, I tend to sleep better and have more vivid dreams. The challenges are real too! As an early riser, going 2-3 hours without breakfast is difficult. Anyone that knows me well has seen that hungry can easily turn into hangry!

While a textbook ideal weight is more than a few pounds away, I am a believer in small incremental changes. The balance for me includes cherishing the fruits and veggies I missed in Japan, getting myself in my Prius, and driving over to the gym to make sweat. My own alertness and awareness about health and diet are inspiring others around me to make positive changes too. This hopefully continues to go on as I keep an eye on health and share with others the benefits of my experience.

Baagh time: Recollection

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Baagh Time

inspired by the recollections shared with me by my aunt Shahar Abji.

Set in Rural Pakistan in the 1970s:

In our shared bedroom, my brothers and sister around me were still fast asleep under their blankets. But I could not stay still much longer. I sprung out of bed and jumped over my playmates. My excitement for the day’s activities made it too difficult to sleep. Yesterday was Eid, but today, I knew, would be even better.

I slipped quietly into the next room. There, in the kitchen, I watched Baa as she skimmed a wooden ladle over the slow-heating milk. Her hand was steady and calm; her gold bangles jiggled as she collected a thick layer of rich white malaai that was gathering on the top of the milk.

I went over to greet her with a smile and Ya Ali Madad. Baa’s eyes twinkled back in greeting and I sensed she, too, was quietly looking forward to our afternoon.

Together, we made breakfast as the rest of the family slowly woke up. While Baa warmed the tawa, I rolled out little chaapatis, doing my best to make sure they were round and even. Bapa arrived just as Baa finished making warm, buttery parathas for him. Before we would leave for the day, he would have to finish accounting for the groceries that had come in yesterday evening. After that, we would be all free for the baagh (the garden) in our area!

Mohammed woke up next and turned on the radio. We listened to the tilawat (Quran recitations) over the speakers as Mohammed happily ate the next warm roti. Iqbal woke up and delighted us, greeting us with a “WHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEE.” He was a big fan of the baagh and was eagerly anticipating our visit in the afternoon. He roused Hyder in his excitement. Shortly after all the commotion, Wazir arrived, nodding his head in agreement with the tilawat. Then Amina came just as I was sitting down to join everyone else at breakfast. Together, we sprinkled grains of sugar on top of malaai. Then, we made tiny triangle scoops of roti and scooped up gooey malaai into our eager mouths.

…………………………………………………………………………….

After Eid Namaz yesterday, all my brothers and sisters got a few rupees. My money jingled in my pocket the following day. After breakfast, I hurried to the candy store with Iqbal. Though just a few steps away, it took so long to get there from our house. When we got there, we bought our favorite cow milk candies. Our journey to the baagh would be a sweet one. Between us, we had plenty of candies to share. At least for a few days…

While everyone was preparing pootlas for lunch and snacks for the baagh, I went over to Mohabbat’s house. I was so giddy with excitement I felt like I was gliding through the air. “Do you know today the tanga-ghaddi is coming?” I told Mohabbat.  “We are going to the baagh. We are going, for a picnic. Everyone will come. Are you going to join too?” I knew she would join. Mohabbat would come with some of my nieces and nephews. There was plenty of space in the back of the horse-drawn cart.

………………………………………..

I walked through the garden, with my brothers and sisters. We noticed and appreciated the smells of roses blooming around us. We came together with joy in our hearts and played. We took turns on the joola. Back then, these little gatherings were everything. The red-brown dirt, the lush roses that sprung out of the ground, and the breeze while I sat on the swings. We were truly children, playing together without worries.

A Few Celebrations and One Funeral

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Mohabbat Khano Hirani

When I returned to Atlanta from Japan in April, I was hoping to strengthen relationships with my family; I imagined a lazy river floating into rivulets of family affairs. The last month has been a flood of activities. In the past few weeks my Atlanta-based family has seen, in chronological order: (1) A baby announcement and gender reveal party from my cousin Amjad (aka John), (2) the DC wedding celebration of my cousin Abbas’s daughter Rozi, and (3) the hospitalization and subsequent death of aunt Mohabbat Hirani (and grandmother of Rozi). I find myself immersed in the fast-moving whitewater of my family. Though I intend to write a blog post here every week, the care for my folks has come first.

By being here, in Atlanta, and by being open and available, my red Prius and I have had the opportunity to assist the family in unique ways. Mohabbat lived just a 10-minute drive away. I drove her to the gender reveal party for Amjad’s child. On the drive over, she taught me a Gujarati expression. Her idiom hinted at her times; it suggests that you can neither guess the weather nor the gender of a child. In that saying, I see she held anticipation for the mystery of life. From our encounter there, I had a hint of her deteriorating health; I supported her weight on my back as we walked twenty feet from my parked car to the party door. During the lunch and events, I remember seeing exhaustion in her eyes. Still, she patiently watched the festivities and listened as I shared a poem I wrote for the occasion. Mohabbat, whose name means love, made the effort to come to this party, I believe for symbolic reasons. She came to pass the torch and bless with love the next generation.

 

Though Mohabbat was in a weakened state, we had hoped she would make it to DC for her granddaughter Rozi’s wedding. Desi weddings tend to involve many events. Fortunately, one event was held in Atlanta. There, she met and blessed the union of Travis and Rozi. She smiled as we introduced Travis to the pithi ceremony where he was hazed with flour, eggs, and ketchup.  When it came time for us to head to DC, Mohabbat would be admitted to outpatient diabetic care at the hospital. Her daughter, Saeeda, stayed back to look after her along with two of my uncles.

Blessings at Pithi

Mohabbat is my mother’s oldest sibling. My mother called her Bhen, sister in Hindi. So I often called my aunt Mohabbat Bhen. It seemed fitting. Her presence always carried that calm, quiet love of the elderly and wise. No one expected the worsening of issues with Bhen’s hospitalization. On a sunny afternoon, in DC, the mehndi, at the first gorgeous DC ceremony we applied henna to our hands to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. There, we met Travis and his clan. On the following day, the day of the official Nikkah ceremony, Mohabbat was admitted to the ICU in Atlanta. Her daughter Munira left DC immediately and headed to her mom in Atlanta. That day, as I played with my niece Jenna, I was struck by the sense of impermanence. In my mind, I saw the contrast of Jenna’s young full cheeks against the soft, worn skin on my aunt’s arms. The remaining two days of socializing took on a somber tone. Rozi’s father Abbas left for Atlanta shortly after he walked his daughter down the aisle. The day after Rozi and Travis were officially hitched, the joint family brunch had a reduced crowd. As I met more of the Travis family, I realized the need for a family tree. His was much easier to pull together than ours. It is still on my to-do list…

Rozi accompanied by her mother and father

The next day, I returned to Atlanta where my cousin Sunya picked me up and drove us directly to the ICU to see Ben. By that time, my aunt Shahar (Ben’s younger sister) and my uncle Salim had driven from Toronto to Atlanta to be next to Bhen. Initially though admitted for complications from kidney failure, my aunt in the hospital looked to be deteriorating. She had a heart attack and a stroke while in ICU. During her time in the hospital, Mohabbat always had someone next to her reciting prayers and watching over her. For some excruciating days, my aunt’s condition worsened. She was breathing, feeding, and expelling from tubes. From there, the family made a difficult and yet, gracious decision to take Bhen off of life support.

Gathering in Her Honor

For the last few hours of her life, Mohabbat was transported to her home. Among the family members there, we took turns singing ginans, reading firmans, and reciting tasbih chants. This informal ceremony was also shared via Zoom with her family abroad. Her son and daughter in Australia recited her last prayers over WiFi. Mohabbat Bhen left this earth surrounded by the prayers and love of her huge family. In that gathering, I could see Mohabbat’s legacy and what had really mattered to her.

Our families are so interconnected. On the day after her passing, as is our tradition, we had a meal and prayers held at the home of the deceased. The gathering after Ben’s passing took me back to my high school days when we would meet with Mohabbat’s mother, and my grandma (Baa). We went to Baa’s house on Friday nights after prayers in khane. Our immediate family, my uncles, and cousins would hang out after we ate dinner. Then, we gathered around a big table and played cards, sometimes into the early AM. As we played, stories arose in conversation about the journey the family made from a dusty hamlet in Pakistan to our present plush surroundings in suburban Atlanta. Last week, then, as I saw my cousin, Munira’s kids gathered around the table mourning their grandmother, I thought of my grandma and her stories. I took that moment to teach Munira’s loving kids the same card game I learned from my grandma.

Sweet Teeth

As the funeral approaches, we will have more guests. When I initially arrived in Atlanta, I did not want to stay at my mother’s home for too long. However, both my mother and stepdad have extended a longer invitation through warmth and mutual respect. Also thanks to their hospitality, we have had a steady flow of family visitors during this tumultuous time.  The five bedrooms here have seen a steady flow of guests. In that way, I have had the chance to play host. My sister and adorable niece, my (favorite) aunt Shahar, and later Wazir and Parveen, have come to visit. Our kitchen it seems is a 24-hour cafeteria. My cousin Sunya, who is also extending her home in a housing crunch, jokes with me that we are running an unlisted Airbnb.

Despite my occasional introversion, for the first time in ages, I found myself energized by hosting the family that has been visiting. I found moments to provide comfort or a sensitive ear during difficulties. When my cousin Saeeda (Ben’s daughter) came over on the 1st day of summer, I plucked a gorgeous lily for her from our front yard. It glowed pride. I showed Saeeda the tiny little thorns on the lily’s upturned petals. This first blooming lily, I hoped, would give Saeeda a distraction to ease her soul for the parting of her mother.

Through this emotionally charged month, I am struck by how lucky we are that we can unite to honor my aunt Mohabbat Hirani. If this had happened during the last two years, we may not have been able to gather at all. Meanwhile, as we connect, the lessons and sagas of immigrant migration are ever-present. Three of Ben’s brothers live in Canada. Two of them lost their passports and have had to make emergency travel arrangements to arrive for the funeral. After some US visa pleading, two of Mohabbat’s children just arrived from Australia. As I head to the airport soon, I will pick up another uncle from Canada. The month of June included this as my birthday gift. I see that the universe allowed me to reconnect with my family. And that chance came in the shape of a tsunami. It is a blessing that I caught this wave.

 

Growing Up Ismaili: Celebrating Spring with Navroz Mubarak

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Courtyard of Atlanta Khane

            Navroz Mubarak! Congratulations on the New Year! No one is surprised when I tell them that Spring is my favorite season. Blooming flowers and warm weather are only part of the reason. Growing up in Atlanta, the celebration of Spring (Navroz) was my favorite way to celebrate my pluralistic roots. My upbringing within a progressive, eclectic sect of Islam contrasted traditional notions of being a practicing Muslim. While I have chosen spirituality over religion, I can see that many of my foundational values are rooted in growing up Ismaili.

            Ismailis mark the beginning of Spring in a blend of Islamic traditions. My family, living in Georgia, adapted our own practices. If the first day of Spring fell on a school day, my sister and I were allowed to skip class! Before leaving the house to join the festivities, we made an enormous effort in getting dolled up. My sister and I might have had a new festive shalwar kameez to wear, depending on the finances. We spruced up our everyday look with fancy hairdos and ornate jewelry to complement our outfits’ embroidery, sequins, or tassels. Sometimes we adorned our clothes with tiny purses made of metal, lined in satin and sown together and clipped with a bold clasp. The whole family perfumed itself in exotic smells. Then, still, early in the day, we packed the car with the blended aroma of Dad’s aftershave and the lady’s floral perfumes. As we headed to Jamat Khane (what we called our house of worship, our church) for the beginning of festivities, we would listen to a pre-recorded religious lecture over the sound system.

Dressed up for a Song

Thankfully, getting to Khane during the daytime meant avoiding the Decatur traffic. Hundreds of other cars had already filled in the parking lot. After grumbling about parking and pulling into an always far away spot, my family entered through the courtyard gates. We were well-coifed and a bit frazzled from the ride as we approached the red brick building, our holy place. At the foyer, I turned in my shoes for a numbered token. Upon entering the vast hall, the ladies on the left, the men on the right, I found a place to sit on the plush pink carpet with dark blue borders. I breathed in the smells of Oudh and looked around to peek at the long table separating the genders. At the front of the hall,  a congregation member sang religious songs. The songs there, ginans or qasidas, came from the vast global roots of the Ismaili community. The recitations could be in Farsi, Gujarati, or Kutchi.

Namaz on Navroz

            After the singing, and on this day alone, there was a typical namaz; this is what most people imagine when they think of Muslim prayers: people stand up, bend down, and repeat the moves a few times. After the prayer ceremonies, food and drink were served in the outside courtyard. A fair-like atmosphere pervaded the grounds. Younger people could sometimes expect an `eidi` a cash gift for simply smiling and shaking hands with an elder. That first day of Spring was usually the only day I wanted to go to Khane. Celebrating Spring was a stark contrast to my other recollections of attending Khane.

Sunday School on Friday Night

            For some unknown reason, the most vital day to congregate was Friday evenings, after a long week of school or life. Being involuntarily taken to Khane on Friday nights was the bane of my high school existence. I grudgingly dressed for Friday nights and then suffered in the backseat through excruciating rush hour to arrive and be grumpy for more classes. My version of Sunday school happened on Fridays. I dutifully attended the Religious Education Center, REC, taught by a community of volunteers who all seemed to know my parents. Though it was better than forced prayers in the main hall, I could not suppress my desire to poke holes in history or doctrine. I attended REC while debating and disagreeing in most of the class. One classmate was impressed with my brain, and the others were just annoyed with my questions.

Who is driving her?

            After the ceremonies or REC was over, I headed to the Khane library. If caught by a family friend on the way there, I socialized a bit. When it was finally time to leave, my parents knew to find me in the library. When my parents were ready to go on most Friday nights, they sent me to search for my sister in crowds of people. I appreciated the brick peek-a-boo fence and flower patches between the laps or two along the courtyard outside. In my meanderings outside, I eavesdropped on volunteers and cringed at comments. Invariably I overheard people’s lives being examined and judged. A few steps into the parking lot, there was yet another version of the same game. At every turn, people were wondering: Who is driving the new beamer? Beyond that, over tea, `what does your son do now?` Or the eyes watching for what insignia or emblem is hanging off your keys? The community practiced, constantly, the subtle one-man upmanship.

Hungry Yet?

            Fridays sometimes ended well. When we returned home or went to my grandma’s house after Khane, we delighted in what my parents bought in “nandi.” Within the prayer hall, separating the male and female sections, was a low-lying table with various plates of food. The dishes were of all colors and represented a world of cuisines. They were all brought in by the diverse congregation. Nandi was the term used for these food offerings that were auctioned off after ceremonies. The proceeds went to Khane funds. The act of sending part of your home-cooking grows from the importance of an abundance mindset. You GIVE away a portion of your lovingly made meal to Khane. The by-products were two-fold: the revenue for Khane and the opportunity for Jamaat members to eat something different. The best surprises were when someone sent in an East African dish of mandazi and bharazi. The prices could get high on a special occasion day. With his foodie tendencies, my Dad always seemed to find it worth the cost. Many nandi dishes simply could not be bought anywhere else.  

Diverse and Growing

            Spring nandi sometimes included arrangements of flowers and fruit. The luxurious day was a celebration of new life, the very essence of Spring. Explaining the background of the Ismaili lineage was always a bit complicated. A long-winded book, The Ismailis, covers some history and doctrine, if you are curious Still, I can see how the sect I was raised in reflects on my life now. Of course, food, travel, self-growth, and entrepreneurship are essential to me. I came from a thriving, diverse community that was both enjoying the past and diving into a full American tomorrow. What I accepted from this past and those parts I rejected are more evident now. My spirituality is freed from the dogma of religion. Underneath it, the Ismaili spirit of pluralism, community effort, and self-growth are my foundation.  

A reflection

A Tribute to Memory on Father’s Day: Mustache Dad

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Photo by Josh Willink on Pexels.com

It is the season of Father’s Day commercials. When I see Macy’s advertising a snazzy men’s outfit, it bites a bit. My father is long gone. It will always be a difficult loss. But, now, when it is June, and Father’s Day is on the calendar, I turn to the memories and stories of fathers passed. Though I did not know any of my grandfathers in real life, I am full of stories about them, too.  In this way, I celebrate the contributions of the fathers gone in my family.

A favorite story about my Dad comes from the dark mustache he always wore. Well, he almost always had it; there was just this one exception. One day, my younger sister burned her upper lip while waxing. On that day, my father shaved his mustache. While the rest of his plump face shone with a gold sun-kissed look, that tiny space of the upper lip on his face was unusually clean. It was white and looked a bit neglected after years of hiding under a tuft of black hair. His turf of white against a glowing smile was unmistakably odd.  My Dad, in his self-effacing style, created a diversion. When we out to our community gathering that night, instead of focusing on my sister’s upper lip, our friends noticed where his mustache had been. He looked a bit goofy like this, without his mustache.

It was doubly funny, when you compared that space with his eyebrows. While his mustache was normally trimmed and well-groomed, Dad’s eyebrows were like hairy caterpillars on his face. Some strands of hair were much longer than the rest; like silver arms they rose from his face. No photo could ever capture the way those silvery hairs moved as he talked. The caterpillars jiggled with each expression. Those benevolent crawlers contrasted against this smooth upper lip. His smile, that day, held a sweet and mischievous look, knowing that he was carrying away someone else’s embarrassment.

On Father’s Day, I am reminded that there isn’t anything for sale that could meet the vivacity of my memories of the past. When is the last time you actually talked about family memories?

In nourishing these moments, remembering them and reflecting on them, the people from my past can come alive. Those stories which I remember, and those which are shared with me, are living in picture frames inside of my heart. It is in these moments that we can relish and respect the past. These stories are how we can share with the next generation the influences that shaped us. It is in these recollections that the spirit of our grandfathers and fathers can live on.

Happy Father’s Day, folks!