...cause I am a (sentimental) Material Girl
Choosing objects to collect was a way for me to live out a story I had in my head. It was a by-product of me growing up on more fiction than reality. Nothing was ordinary because they had the potential to become a prop in a memorable scene or part of my legacy (or a cursed object that will capture my soul). Now that I am starting a new chapter of my life far away from everything I knew, most of the objects I chose to bring with me hold significant value by default. I documented only a few…with a little life injected into them.
The "Dark and Odd" Bracelet:
Being a teenager meant being perpetually confused about who or what I was supposed to be. Before social media or smartphones, my reference was the TV with conflicting depictions of Western versus South Asian narratives, and the other, more confused kids in my school. When I was 12, I had decided I would buy – more accurately ask my mother to buy me an accessory that I would choose for myself. I may have been trying to fit in with a particular group of girls in my class – I honestly cannot remember what silly point I was trying to make. However, as the eldest (experiment) child in a South Asian household, my mother was in control of what I could wear or do, adhering to a strict code of obedience. So when she objected to me choosing what she called a “dark and odd” bracelet, I decided to stand my ground for the first time.
I have had this piece of accessory for 14 years, and every time I see it I feel proud of that girl who started to become more confident from that point on. I was never a rebellious teen, but I learned to speak up more gradually over time for the right reasons. It would still be many years until I found a more concrete version of myself, but this bracelet was a constant throughout it all.
The "Professional Looking" Mask:
Sure, as a society and individually we may put on masks of civility metaphorically but the covid pandemic forced us to make it literal. Some of us became so comfortable behind it that we still cannot let go. However, it was also a reminder of so much more for all of us. For me, one of that was not being able to see my classmates during my graduation ceremony. Not being able to celebrate getting through each of our struggles and having each other’s back for 4 years. Since I was fortunate enough to represent my class during the official ceremony, I was also under the pressure to look good for the pictures. My mother got me a mask that was deemed “professional looking” for the occasion, and so it became my go-to formal mask for every occasion afterwards. Now that I see it hanging on my wardrobe, I realize it has also become a known comfort for me.
The Comb:
This is story of my grandmother. And my mother. And my aunt. And everyone in my family that got stuck with the unfortunate genetic trait of gradual hair loss. This is their story because they passed on their insecurity to me. For a long time I believed them when they tried to tell me hair was part of a women’s beauty. I truly believed, as my mother aggressively put odorous hair masks on my head, that having thick long locks made me more acceptable to society as a female.
But then came the health complications that started to take away my strands. I struggled throughout my teenage years adjusting to a new reality about my appearance. Fortunately, I had a few confident older cousins and well adjusted friends who helped me realize we don’t have to conform to any standards of beauty. I decided to take back control of my oppressed scalp and not worry so much. During this time I got attached to this comb that served me well for years. Even though it lost a few teeth, I still cannot let it go.
What is Home?:
I was once confident enough to think I could commit to Architecture school.
It lasted 2 weeks.
During that brief stint, I was asked to create 50 sketches in the theme of “Know Thyself”. Among all my sketches back then, there was one I realized would always stay true to myself. The place I grew up in.
This house is my grandfather’s legacy. He built this with his family. My dad would sometimes tell us the story of how he and his brother managed the logistics of each brick, each sack of cement, every truck of sand to help my grandfather build his dream house. His children took each of the five floors, which is why I was able grow up playing with so many of my cousins.
Now, 6 years later, I asked my sister, who is now thriving in architecture school, to put her spin on our home on the same paper. I may not be able to take my home with me, but I can carry the stories of the elders, and our shared outline of the word home that only the two of us can understand.
The Therapist:
Chocolate – the story speaks for itself.
My first love, a constant support system, my solution to dealing with life.
Sometimes I joke I am 90% chocolate.