Raising A Giver, a lesson from my father

I have a special affinity for the Disabled Veterans Association.  Although I respect veterans, this is not the organization my friends might associate with me.  I have my father to thank for this attachment.

When I was seven or eight years old, my father sent in a donation to the DVA on my behalf.  He continued to give small donations to them here and there over several years and always under my name.  I did not know anything about the association nor did I give it much thought.  I did, however, love the address labels with my name that the organization sent me and even the cheap mix of greeting cards that sometimes came in the place of address labels.  I was eight and I just enjoyed receiving mail of any kind.

I don't know why my dad did this.  Perhaps he thought it was a worthwhile charity.  Perhaps he got a "please donate" mailing from them and thought it would be cute to send it in my name.  Perhaps it was to include in his list of charities for tax purposes.  Perhaps he did not put any thought into it.

I don't believe that it was his purpose to teach me a lesson about giving, but that was the unintentional result.  That simple act of sending a few dollars to a randomly chosen charity has made me a giver.  Not only did I become a giver, but also, I gained a passion for giving that stays with me today.  No matter what my salary has been, I have always given a portion of it to various charities.

Over the years I've given to the National Parks Assoc, a women's collective in the state of Gujarat, a girls' school in Andhra Pradesh, the New York Public Library, Operation Santa Claus, Nothing But Net, Doctors Without Borders, March of Dimes, One campaign, Salvation Army, Feed Project, the Girl Scouts (umm, cookies), my alma maters (does that count?), and the many races/marathons/iron mans that my friends have run for charity.  When that didn't seem satisfying enough, I devoted my time.  I was a mentor to an 8 year old, I volunteered at a domestic abuse helpline, I ran various races, I painted playgrounds, I helped out with the NY marathon, I reigned in rude high school kids at Derek Jeter's kids charity (long, hot story!).  Wow, I didn't realize how difficult it would be to recall everything.  My dad deserves all the credit.

As a parent, I struggle with how to pass onto my son the correct morals and beliefs.  How do you teach someone to be a good person?  Whenever it seems overwhelming, I think back to the simple lessons from my father.  I didn't get my beliefs from a lesson plan.  I got them from a role model.

Uniform Change

Today is the 35th anniversary of International Women's Day!  In honor of this day, I will share an anecdote involving my parents.

 

My first voyage to India was when I was seven years old.  I made the trip with my family and spent most of the time with my paternal grandparents in their small village called Bodali.   I visited Bombay (now Mumbai) for a few days, but mostly I was in Bodali.  I have vivid memories of that place and time.  I remember that in honor of our visit, a friend of my grandparents sent a live chicken to cook for our evening dinner.  I remember a couple of neighborhood boys gave my brother and me hand-carved wooden sling shots.  I remember heating the milk every morning and storing it in the cabinet to use during the day because there was no refrigerator.  I remember watching the maid milk the buffalo...and the buffalo droppings all along the dirt road that runs through town.  I remember my grandmother cooking over an open fire pit in the backyard.  I remember my father brushing his teeth with what looked to be a twig from a tree.  I remember trekking to my grandfather's fields and gnawing on fresh sugar cane right then and there.  I remember pomegranate fruit, Thums Up soda, well water, and mangoes.  These memories are made all the more special because I would not return to India for another 25 years.  

When I was 32, I traveled with my mom, again to Bodali to visit my paternal grandmother and again to Mumbai to visit my uncle and family.  Aside from the moving inner spiritual experience, what struck me about India this time was the contrast between the poor village and the big city.  The first time around Bombay was slightly more advanced than the village.  This time, Mumbai reflected what I thought a city should be and Bodali didn't seem very different from 25 years ago.  True, many people (not all) had TVs now and many people (not all) had Western bathrooms.  But, life was pretty much the same.

The first time I went, it was an eight hour journey from the Bombay Airport to Bodali.  It was a four hour car ride the second time around, thanks to a more efficient highway system.  In the U.S., it would likely be a three hour drive because although a lot of the trip was on paved highways, the last hour was still on a one lane dirt road.  The kind of road that if a farmer is going by with a buffalo, then you pull over and wait.  It is a long way from the small villages to the towns and cities.  A long way.

During our time there, my mom told me that she and my father keep a bank account in the Bodali bank (which was once founded and managed by my grandfather).  Every year the local elementary school for boys and girls in grades 1st to 7th withdraws funds from my parents' account to buy its students new uniforms for the school year.  This was the elementary school my father attended along with his older brother and younger sister when he was growing up. 

I thought it was admirable that my parents gave back to our little known family village in India.  I admit, though, that I was a little unimpressed that we gave uniforms.  I'm part of the generation that "thinks big" - give a car, get the latest and newest textbooks, order computers.  What good will a uniform do?  

These memories of India and my parents' effort to give back have been on my mind as I read the book Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Pulitzer Prize winners Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn.  This is an inspirational book about unlocking the potential of women in many 3rd world countries, such as India, where women's roles have been traditionally minimized.  There are numerous lessons in this book, but I will mention the one that struck a chord with me because it showed me how important it is to target small communities like Bodali and how valuable it is to "think small" sometimes.

Education is the key to increasing the role of girls and women.  Easier said than done because girls drop out when their families do not have money to pay for the schooling or when they are married off early and get pregnant.  Keeping girls in school leads them to earn income and support their countries' economies; thus helping to tackle global poverty.  Educating women means less early age marriage and pregnancies; thus helping to lower the world's birthrates.    

How can we help?  One way, a Kenyan study found that giving girls a new $6 school uniform every 18 months significantly reduced dropout rates and pregnancy rates.

As usual, I have a lot to learn from my parents.

Family Democracy

I was six years old when I was introduced to politics.  It was the election year of 1980 and my family lived in Georgia, the home state of one of the candidates, Jimmy Carter.  It was an exciting time for state pride although the other candidate, Ronald Reagan would go on to become president.  I had no idea what a presidential election really meant, but the charged atmosphere was enough to get my precocious mind thinking.

"Daddy, what party are you?"  I asked.
"I am whatever our president is," he replied.

At the time, I did not react to that answer. I was looking to hear one of two responses and I did not understand what he meant. Almost thirty years later, I consider it a beautiful and simple statement that has enormously influenced the way I live my life.

I remember when Reagan was up for re-election and ran a brilliant campaign commercial using the song, "I'm Proud to Be an American," with scenes of "real" America - farms, steel mills, churches and coal miners.  I was ten then and still did not understand the scope of politics, but I was hooked.  I was proud to be an American.  Considering the landslide victory that year, I think much of America felt this way.

Growing up, I had no political affiliation although I followed politics somewhat.  I wasn't a taxpayer and I wasn't old enough to vote, so I did not think it necessary to take a side.  I took what my dad said to heart.  I turned eighteen and started my first year of college in the election year of 1992.  I excitedly registered to vote in our campus mailroom.  Given the choice of party affiliation, I chose "Independent."  Now, don't get me wrong, I went to one of the most liberal colleges in the country and I've only voted in one direction the last seventeen years.  Yet, I valued my Independent status.

I vote in every election.  Sometimes my candidate wins and sometimes a different candidate wins.  The majority has spoken.  As an adult, I have strong opinions on the issues, but I haven't forgotten the lesson from my father.  In fact, I find it quite intellectual to understand and debate the opposite of what one thinks. I find it more rewarding to be compassionate and empathetic to other people's thinking than to bully others into my opinion.  That doesn't stop me from shaking my head in frustration, but I will listen respectfully.

It was not until later that I would understand that my dad was a citizen of his birth country India; thus, he was not able to vote in the 1980 election.  Despite this, he was and is well-versed in politics, current events, international news, and local affairs.  A lack of a vote did not mean apathy.  I've noticed that he takes the diplomatic route rather than the divisive one in most situations, whether presidential politics or family politics.  He has strong opinions, but he methodically weighs the arguments of both sides.  I am proud to be my father's daughter.

Christmas Gift!

Did you know that "Christmas Gift!", and not "Merry Christmas," was the greeting originally spoken on X-mas morning and that the first person saying it would receive a gift?  

 

My parents had immigrated from India and did not know much of American customs, so we did not begin celebrating the holiday until I was eight.  That's when we moved to Plymouth and were surrounded by  a Christmas hysteria that we had never witnessed before.  I think the snow and cold weather brings the festive spirit alive much more.  I also think that in the 70s, Christmas hadn't peaked in its mass appeal. 

My family was always hazy on the customs.  I never believed in Santa Claus and I am thankful for that.  We had a fake tree and wreath and electric candles for the first few years.  We got our first live tree when I was in high school and I enjoyed decorating it and smelling the fresh pine needles.  I did not like the mess.  I loved Christmas and Hannukah songs.  My mom would cook a special dinner, such as pot roast or meatloaf.  We made Christmas cards.  We went sledding and built snowmen.  I was excited about Christmas break from school. 

The big tradition, the one many people associate with Christmas, of exchanging gifts was one that did not catch on in my family.  We are not gift givers.  We do get thoughtful gifts for each other throughout the year, but we were hot and cold with the idea of Christmas gifts.  Some years we'd wrap up gifts and other years no one would do anything.  Sometimes, we'd tell each other the gift or outright ask someone what to buy, thus killing any surprise element.  I'm happy that I didn't grow up with an emphasis of gifts.  We didn't torture ourselves to finish Christmas shopping during the holiday rush or pick up generic gifts just for the sake of gift giving or believe that this was the only time of the year to do something nice for each other. 

Of course, that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good Christmas gift.  I may be contradicting myself, but I love getting gifts.  Who doesn't?  Memories of gifts I did receive are very special, especially since I don't need to weave through memories of unused picture frames or cop-out calendars or useless gadgets or compulsory gift cards.

My most memorable Christmas was when I was ten and I woke up to find a wrapped box with my name under the decorated tree.  "Christmas gift!"  I was the only one with a package.  I unwrapped the box and amazingly it was a Cabbage Patch Kid.  A preemie named Ellie Oriana to be exact.  This was when Cabbage Patch Kids were the hot ticket item and I had been on the waiting list for months.  Apparently, the store had called a few days before Christmas and my dad and brother had gone to get it.  They managed to wrap it up and sneak it back tot he house without me seeing or knowing.  I was ecstatic -- words cannot express the joy.  This was the first time I'd ever had a Christmas Day surprise.

Many Christmas days have passed since then and I've received several gifts.  My parents bought me a brand new car at one point.  My preemie doll is somewhere in my parents' basement.  I lugged it to school in the fifth grade and then the fad ended.  That one memory lives on, though, because I remember the huge smiles across my parents' and brother's faces as I unwrapped the box and expressed my shock and delight at what I saw.  They were more excited than I was.  That was my favorite Christmas gift.

"Merry Christmas"

Chicken Curry for the Indian Mother's Soul

I enjoy cooking. I first dabbled in the kitchen my senior year at Brown when I went off meal plan along with my college roommate P. She and I mostly made some sort of stir fry or some sort of pasta dish EVERY day. Every so often we'd cook with our roommate M., who had far superior culinary skills and we'd learn a thing or two. I whip up her homemade cherry cobbler when I want to look like I know something about baking.

Once I graduated, I moved to Greenwich, CT and met my roommate A. who also loved to cook. She and I would spend countless wasted hours at work printing every recipe available on the web it seemed. Our first night in our apartment, we made lobster, which remains a traumatic experience to this day. I'll just say that our pots were not big enough for the lobsters and one of them struggled as we dropped him in. When we moved a year later, we went to the grocery store and bought the prepared lobster as our final meal in the apartment. Mmmm, lobster that someone else has prepared for you is the best.

That one bad episode aside, cooking is a great respite from work life. When I moved to San Francisco, I was on my own for the first time and got into the habit of cooking almost every night. I picked at least one new recipe a week to learn something and vary my diet. I loved it. Unfortunately, when I moved to NYC, I completely got out of the habit of cooking. Take out is so cheap and easy and the city offers so many fantastic restaurants that the time commitment of cooking and the expense of buying groceries just wasn't worth it.

But, now I am a mom and want to ensure that my family eats healthy so I'm back to cooking almost every night. Even while handling a 4-month old who requires constant attention and amusement, cooking is once again a relaxing and happy part of my day.

When I moved to San Francisco, my mom wrote out many of her Indian recipes for me (although I still had to call her every 10 minutes when I was following them for some reason). I have always meant to type up her chicken curry recipe, so I would have it forever, especially now that the original notebook page is yellowed from the turmeric and falling apart from the oil spills.

Chicken Curry or Biriyani

1. Cut the chicken (breast and legs) into small pieces. Wash the chicken with warm water 3 to 4 times and drain.
2. Grind ginger and garlic (2 tsp each). Add 1 tsp each of red hot pepper and turmeric powder and 3 tbls oil. Mix all these ingredients with salt to taste.
3. Add the chicken and mix well. Set aside.
4. Put a pan on the stove with medium heat. Add oil (about 1/4 cup) and heat. Put in whole black pepper (2 or 3), 2 to 3 cloves and small cinnamon stick. Let it heat for a while before adding chopped (1 whole) onion.
5. Add the spiced chicken pieces and stir and cook until the chicken is well done.
6. Add 2 diced potatoes and cook again. When potatoes are done, add the tomato sauce and cook again. Add 1 tsp garam masala and then turn turn off the heat.
7. Mix with the cooked rice if needed (for biriyani)
   

Admirable Woman: A Tribute to My Mother

I was daunted when faced with this MBA application essay.

Identify someone you regard as a hero, a leader or role model whom you admire. Describe how this person has influenced your development.

Ten years ago, the essay portion of the SATs asked almost exactly this question. My mind went blank. I scribbled furiously about…Rosa Parks. I did not even know enough about Rosa Parks to fill the page but I babbled on and passed the writing portion with high marks. Don’t get me wrong, Rosa Parks is an iconic symbol of the Civil Rights movement. She is to be admired. However, my family did not move to the U.S. until the 1970’s and this choice did not strike me as especially personal. I vowed to redeem myself.

My initial instinct was to think of a woman. Not surprising as I consider myself a strong woman and I admire other such women. I rise up to challenges without relying on the guidance of others. Or so I thought until I tackled this question.

I chose to write about my mother. Not an easy task considering us first generation Indian-Americans were not exactly raised in gushing families that expressed emotions or acknowledged feelings. Would Harvard recognize the depths I needed to explore for this essay? Would I do my mother justice? Would I cry? Maybe. Hopefully. Yes.

"You’re too independent," exclaimed the Indian Uncles and Aunties. Only, they meant it in the pejorative sense of the word. It was okay when I graduated valedictorian of my high school and when I went away to an ivy league school. It was not okay when I wanted to do things my way. Often, my way would clash with the Indian way.

In my latest act of "rebellion," I had moved across the country to California to work and experience life. Most of my cousins and family friends had moved back into their parents’ homes after college. Some ventured out to a safe radius. That was the correct way, especially for an Indian girl.

Here I was paving my own path again. Well, as I learned in college, I’m not as unique an Indian-American female as I thought. When I really stopped to think about it, my mom cleared far more hurdles than I have ever faced.

My mom has two older sisters who married young - the eldest at 14 and the second at 16. Those were the 60s in India. Few women went to college, and if they did, they were more likely to be Brahmin or well-to-do. Certainly not a poor village girl. What was the point when women should get married and stay at home to raise their children and care for their husbands. Sure, she took home economics with the other girls in school and helped her parents at home. Why not learn how to sew, cook, and balance a budget?

My mom went to college and in the sprawling metropolis of Bombay, no less. I had some trepidation of moving to San Francisco on my own and that is nowhere near the size of Bombay. She did not think of it as fearless nor did she consider the social ramifications of seeming too educated among her soon to be Indian peers in America. She was simply smart.

My mom married my father after earning her B.A. in Economics. (that’s the same degree I obtained). None of my aunts had college degrees and many never finished high school. That’s not to say they were not intelligent. But, I recognized that my mom achieved something special. Unfortunately, it was not necessarily revered in an Indian woman of no social status. Thus, my mom never flaunted her education and downplayed her intelligence. That sounds familiar to me. Sometimes, we are both humble to a fault.

My dad returned to the U.S. to start his job, but my mom was now pregnant and stayed behind to wait for her visa call. The call came as she was in the hospital giving birth to my brother and she would have to wait almost a year for the next call. During this time, my mom stayed with her parents at first before moving in with my dad’s parents. That was not easy. As much as I loved my paternal grandparents, there was a certain way to treat a daughter-in-law back then. To Americans, it would have appeared that my mom was someone subservient. Again, she persevered. She was above that, yet remained the dutiful daughter-in-law.

My mom, at a mature 24, traveled to the U.S. on her own with a one year old to rejoin my father. A year later, I was born. There was no thought of paternity leave or a husband helping his wife back then. My dad returned to work immediately and my mom was left to run after a toddler, care for a newborn, cook dinner, and maintain the home. No nanny or family to help. Just an indomitable nature.

That was not the way things would remain. My parents began a joint entrepreneurship while I was still in diapers. My dad, to his forward thinking credit, recognized that my mom’s intelligence should not be wasted. My mom now worked full-time while managing the home. Watching my mom succeed in business ventures is what has developed my own business sense and entrepreneurial spirit. I, too, can do it all.

My life has been easy now that I think about it. I’m single at 27, living in San Francisco, well employed and have the goal of pursuing my MBA. I’m simply treading in my mom’s worn path. She’s the reason I’m "independent" and "defiant" and "confident." How could her daughter be anything less.

Phew, I did it. And within the imposed word limit. Harvard does not understand how verbose I can be. I inherited that from my mom, too.