 Cities, this is a collection of, it's light stuff, it's racist, homophobic, classist and sexist things I've experienced in different American cities. Volume one. I moved to the Bay Area in 2011, five days after I resigned from my job as a civil engineer in New Jersey. It was my first time in San Francisco. I lived in Jersey from 1994 to 2010, but it wasn't until I moved to SF that I really felt at home. You smoke weed? No, I don't. You smoke crack though, right? No, not that either. Yeah, this guy smokes crack. He tells his friends sitting nearby. It bothers me when non-black people use any variation of the n-word. I see you on 16th and Mission Crackhead. A middle-aged woman now stands under the bus shelter with us. I don't know if I'm supposed to do this. Okay. I don't respond. I'm joking, Crackhead. I know. My polite, we had his joke and nod. What's your nationality, Crackhead? I'm Indian. Oh, you got that curry shit? He turns to his friend again. They put that really good crack in that shit. Back to me. You know how curries smell like really nasty pussy? Like the girl like cleaned down there in a while. What? No. Oh, you must be gay then. You gay, right? I hesitate. You're right. I'm gay. But I really don't think curry smells like. Oh, my bad. He then turns away from me and talks to the woman. He doesn't speak to or look at me again. This happened last year, a few days after the pulse shooting. Wasn't really much, didn't happen to me not compared to what had happened and what happens to other people, but it's, I'll start. I was expecting it. I know what it's like to be brown in the U.S. after an incident in which a brown person is found to be responsible for an attack. A couple of days earlier, I told a coworker that I liked the idea of pink panthers, but I was afraid of possible racism and stereotyping that would happen from people being, from people being given the power to police others. We have people of color in our group. He assured me defensively. I'm glad it didn't happen with the pink panthers, but I was sure someone would do it. I was expecting it when I attended a screening of trans films in the mission by myself. I was expecting it when I walked alone from the Roxy to the Castor that night. I was even expecting it while I waited by myself in front of the theater. I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner that night and I actually forgot all about it when I did meet my friend. I expected it to play out in slow motion during which I'd be able to ridicule the pungent smell, high temperature and germ count of the stranger's breath like Celine's mad doctor and make him feel insignificant while I confidently beamed a condescending smile. Instead, the stranger shouting within a few inches of my face immediately stunned me. Did you say you have a gun? You brought a gun to the Castro? It was jarring and quick. I didn't know what was happening. He gestured to the crowd that had emptied just out of the theater. This motherfucker brought a gun to the Castro. His loudness was paralyzing. I can't remember what he looked like, but I could feel people around me quieting, staring and moving away. My friend and I stood motionless in the center of a misshapen circle and he managed to soft, what the hell? Thinking back on it now, I'm surprised he was able to vocalize anything at all. I just remember feeling feverish and staring at the man as he'd loudly demanded again, why do you have a gun? Why can't I remember what he looks like? Was everyone waiting for me to respond? Why was everyone so quiet? I turned to my friend and we continued walking to the diner. The man approached me again and accused, you didn't deny it. We kept walking. The crowd resumed their chatter. My friend tried distracting me with a story as I sat across from him at the diner, staring at him. My coffee shaking, consciously making an effort to hold my limbs together. Unable to take another bite of my burger and fries. So that was from cities. Something lighter now, hot cha-chas. Okay. Cha-cha is a Hindi word that translates to uncle in English. So hot cha-chas, obviously, means uncles. But then are there really any other kind? Growing up in the US since age 10 and looking up bare daddy porn since age 16, I noticed only last year that Indian websites referred to older men as uncles rather than daddies. It makes sense. I've been taught to call every unrelated adult male, kaka or cha-cha since I can remember. Not surprisingly, all of them were hot. So I wish I'd appreciated their hotness when I was younger instead of roaming around like an idiot till I came to the realization at age 17 that I preferred dick. This one is called going to finish this chapter before I fall asleep, cha-cha. I love cha-chas who enjoy reading. There's just something about their willingness to sit quietly and patiently that I find appealing. I often cuddle with cha-chas when they're reading in bed. Cha-chas breathe heavily when they read. Their warm breath brings traces of sentences they've just consumed. And breathing in, I feel like I've read too. This is another cha-cha, clearly not me guys. Circular frames, rectangular frames, like come on. Definitely not me. Definitely me. Hairs. Hair seems to be the topping of most conversations I've had recently. When I was on the phone with my mom on Tuesday, she told me about my uncle getting a hair transplant. She faintly echoed her sentiments from last year. You know, I've never asked you to do anything in my life. She likes to lie. But just do this one thing for me, okay? Get a hair transplant. You look so handsome. No mom, you get a hair transplant. The first guy I had sex with influenced me both positively and negatively. He was a nudist, so seeing him walk around naked in his apartment was freeing for me as well. Watching him made me feel comfortable about being naked too, to be less afraid of what others thought of my hairy body. During sex, he pointed out the hairiness of my back and ass. He wasn't mean, but just pointed out with a hint of disappointment. You have a lot of hair. It made me want to cover up again, but I didn't say anything. I also didn't get naked with him again. One more thing. I attended Folsom Street Fair with a couple of friends several years ago. I attended it before as a spectator, but this time I was ready to participate. I was going to walk around with my shirt unbuttoned. Three smooth and skinny guys younger than me, likely in their early 20s, passed me by. There were lots of people there, but it's fairly obvious when someone looks at you and disgusts Snickers with his friends, and the three of them continue walking, laughing. As I was buttoning up my shirt again, an older man with a camera approached me and said he loved my chest. He asked to take a photo and I let him. I was feeling very pretty. He asked to touch my hair. I let him. He thanked me, leaned closer, put his hands on my chest and whispered in my ear. They should stuff pillows out of you. And walked away with a clump of my hair and his fist. I do shed a lot. That was me when I was younger, hoping I had smooth arms. Okay, last story is about my mom. Okay, this is Sadna. That's my mom's name. I recently read about identity at the Exploratorium in San Francisco. I wrote about my definition of identity and how I used my name and past experiences to define myself. I sent the video to my mom and we discussed all the different points I'd made in it. My brother and I don't get along so well, so I was a little surprised when mom said, your brother enjoyed it too. He watched it a few times. I said, yeah, I mentioned him in my essay also about him getting bullied in high school. Her voice cracked. I was afraid it was silencing, but it lowered to a whisper. I didn't know. I didn't know. She started apologizing even though it wasn't her fault. I thought he was asking for jeans because he was being a teenager and wanted new clothes like kids usually do. We had bought so many new clothes in India just for our move to the US. There was no need to buy new clothes. She was talking quickly and almost in disbelief at her own obliviousness. It still burns me inside. I could hear her crying. He wanted American clothes because the kids at school were hurting him for wearing Indian clothes. At home, he was getting shamed for being greedy and wanting jeans like we could afford new jeans. And when he'd go to school, they would hit him. It's okay, mom. It's not your fault. Really, I didn't know. I didn't know. Okay, on that, I'm just gonna end with a joke. So, but it kind of has a beginning and then the longer joke. My mom doesn't eat me and her phone calls off in demand. I give up my bloody habit. She thinks I've changed too much that I've become American. They've made you like them. She states with a deep loss. Where has my child gone? What's happened to my son? And the joke is the part is the reason why I haven't told my mom about this story yet or these collection of stories about her. I grew up vegetarian. When I was 18, I checked into a Holiday and Express on Route 1. I paid $91 in cash. I felt stupid because I thought the guy had said $41. I thought it was expensive for checking into a room for just a few hours with some beer, some liquor, and approximately 350 pills. The first pill took the longest to swallow but after I forced myself to ignore my thoughts, I managed to get the pill in my mouth and down my throat. The next 15 to 20 were easy. But swallowing them two at a time took too long and left a disgusting chalky coating on my tongue. I drove to a McDonald's when parking lot over and bought fries and a large drink to dilute the pill flavor. I can't remember anything about that drive. The fries didn't help, so I thought about making a pill smoothie with the soda. But how do I powderize the pills? Fortunately, I found an iron in the room's closet. The smoothie was disgusting. I couldn't even finish it, but I passed out within minutes. A few hours later, I woke up throwing up on my chest, legs, arms, and I distinctly remembered not wanting to make a mess on the bed, so I vomited on the carpeted floor. Still drowsy, I cleaned up the room, felt sorry for the housekeeper, left a big tip and drove home after throwing away the remaining pills in the trash at the McDonald's. I went to a hotel because I wouldn't have forgiven myself if my mom was the one who found my lifeless body. I couldn't do that to her. By the time I got home, it was night, so the rest of my family was getting ready for dinner. I told my mom I had eaten some bad chicken and wasn't feeling well. I went straight to the bathroom and threw up for hours. I slept there. My mom, while patting the damp, cold cloth she's placed on my forehead and making sure I was comfortable, said, see, this is exactly why we tell you to not eat meat. Thank you. Thank you.