Indie Magazines Unite!

Erm, actually folks, don't. Uniting is going to bring with it a tonne of bother, ranging from opposing political ideologies to disagreements over Chinese take-out.

(Pot stickers, you bastids, POT STICKERS!!)

Instead, leave it to folk like Stack.

Yes ma'am. I am the newest and biggest fan of Stack and its methods-- suitably illustrated in the following screen shot:


If you can afford the subscription fees and have bookshelf space, do it. For now, the website and its blog rich with links to free online editions of indie mags like Little White Lies are going into the top spot on my 'Take that, Andy Warhol' list (scroll down, right ==>)

American Splendour, or the Cognitive Dissonance of Place

Growing up in the Gulf and in India, comics meant Amar Chitra Katha, Tintin, Asterix and the occasional MAD magazine. The year I was born, neighbors who were moving back to the U.K sold my parents a stack of magazines, records and plateware-- this is how I discovered Beano, Buster and the Dandy in 1992, comics that were already old enough then that the paper had turned a fragrant, faded brown.

But that was the full extent of my knowledge of comics-- as far as I was concerned, they were stories and characters created to entertain, amuse and instruct; some were based in history or myth to varying degrees, while others taught me factoids about pop culture in the U.K and U.S-- the candy kids ate, what a soda fountain used to mean, the role of the ham burger.

And then there are comics like American Splendour.

Call it conditioning, misdirected Socialism, or anything you'd like-- growing up, I never imagined you could make a comic about life as you knew it. As a kid, I never imagined a comic could be anything but funny, or action-filled. Even the comic strips that came closest to real life like Chacha Chaudhary still told stories where the bad guys always lost.

I'm a bit of a reverse fan of American Splendour-- I saw the movie before I read the comics. Though I did read and own Persepolis, part 1 and 2 before hearing about the movie, if that's any redemption.

Fact remains, folk like Satrapi and Pekar changed my perception about what can be put between two covers. Whether as comics or as graphic novels, artists who revealed bits of their life for their readers impressed me with their courage more than documentaries on Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi (May their tribe increase) ever could, mainly because as people, these artists and their characters aren't figureheads in historical situation, they aren't called upon to be leaders, saints or good examples. Instead, they are extraordinary in that they choose to put their story out there, however fraught with disillusionment or a sense of failure. And thus they are shining geniuses. Non-warriors in sweat pants with ink stained fingers.

Pekar created a title that would inflict as much irony as possible in two words. Cleveland, OH after all is not exactly a city that invokes a starry, let alone spangled American Dream, however post-modern. And yet, there is no better word for the entirety of his work, or the emotion the comics elicit other than Splendour. Because what makes Pekar's world remarkable is what makes the rest of America the Unsung, America the Unloved, America who's not on prime time worthy of a most secret joy--

Pekar's America is the America folk on the outside never see. It's Ginsberg's Sunflower. It's Stewart O' Nan's Night Country. It's the folk who trek to Burning Man. It's the people who drive in search of Highway 66. It's late night convenience stores. It's the surfers who ride tanker waves off the Galveston coast. It's parades and festivals and street performances. It's the America of small towns and mill towns, open country and highways, streets and avenues that the tourists and news channels always miss.



Maybe it's because I'm constantly trying to understand what home means to me. I can't live in a town or country without rationalizing why I'm here and not there. So maybe this is all just cognitive dissonance, an attempt to justify why I'm here and not in India, or Oman, or anywhere else I've previously been.

But there's something to be said for being msafiri. Wander long enough and you tend to start craving a common denominator, some artifact, expression, sound or food that helps you enter new communities, communicate with new people. We carry our perceptions of how ourselves and certain other things should be, such as sandwiches, or greeting people you really don't want to but have to, or when it's okay to ask for ketchup. All of this becomes our identity, a big, invisible radar that picks up on other people's stories and situations. Think of it as a whimsical form of high context communication.

Which is why while watching American Splendour earlier this morning for the nth time, I couldn't stop the empathy from flowing.

Yes! This is how I want it to be for myself, this is how it should be-- unapologetic, sometimes cowardly, filled with doubt, searching for the right thing to do and always opening life up and picking out threads that have appeared before, that will continue despite me, that means something to someone else. And perfect endings be damned.

I wonder whether such stories could ever happen in India. Probably not. The sense of community and carefully charted out social roles there, the carefully guarded circles in the artistic and political world, the threadbare laws that govern privacy, intellectual copyrights and collaboration, the lack of supporters for any sort of underground creative movement all comes together to mean one thing--There is no particular god in India that protects the loser, the underdog, the manic-depressive 9 to 7evener, the awkward comic book nerd with no social skills, the lone outcast who puts his or her ass out on the line without fear of censorship or criticism because she or he basically has nothing to lose, or doesn't care anymore.

Does this make living here, in this non-tourist, non-urban, non-indian immigrant part of the United States any more appetizing?

Nope.

But it does mean that by not creating art, despite being as free as I am right now of any sort of censorship, self-inflicted, group-inflicted or otherwise, I am an even bigger failure than I first imagined.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I believe we have a break-through.

Think I'll go finish editing that story now.

Where do Warheads Go When they Die?

Alternative Title: On Why I Am Ecstatic About Not Living in Amarillo, TX

I, to use the vernacular, <3 Foreign Policy Magazine. It's the one publication where government, policy and socio-economic issues in countries as diverse as Congo, Uzbekistan, Germany & East Timor are dealt with equally and objectively. And since material is contributed by academics and/or experts in their particular field, there is no stink of party politics either. Happily, no one has yet labeled FP with the doomsday preacher epithet.

Even when it publishes an article on the shelf-life and dismantling of nuclear weapons.

It's worth reading, in its entirety. Jeffrey Lewis has commendable credits, and Meri Lugo is one of those bright young intern types who I occasionally dream of becoming.

And for those of you curious about the safety measures undertaken by Pantex to ensure future generations of the good people of Amarillo aren't born with extra fingers and three purple tentacles, do pay a visit to the What to Do in Case of an Emergency at Pantex page. The instructions are a step-by-step approach to dealing with a nuclear apocalypse. What's most terrifying is, they aint kiddin'.

I bet OSHA pays them a bunch of visits. In 2000, reports were filed with the DOE regarding apparent ground water contamination at Pantex:

One report focusing on the plant's groundwater monitoring program confirms last year Pantex Plant operators did not follow DOE procedures, resulting in an approximate nine month delay in notifying senior managers and the public of newly discovered groundwater contamination at the site.

Yikes.

And for the conspiracy-theory enthusiasts, visit these good people for the whole scoop: they provide you with fun facts-- You'll be the life of a party!-- just like this one:

A 1996 study by the US Department of Health and the Texas Department of Health found higher than normal cancer rates in the counties surrounding Pantex. Although the report failed to link the high cancer rate to activities at Pantex, local citizens believe otherwise. One resident keeps a map of the nearby city of Panhandle with straight pins marking the cases of cancer in the town between 1975 and 1994. For a town with a population of only 2,300, over 400 people have been stricken with some sort of cancer.

It makes me wonder about similar facilities elsewhere in the world: where else is water being contaminated, and do those facilities have a contingency plan in case of a plant mishap?

More reasons why I am not fond of things that go boom.

The Politics of Hair-- an Indian Redux

That girl at twenty-
her black hair ripples
through the comb
in the pride of spring --
such beauty!
(sono ko hatachi kushini nagaruru kurokami no
ogori no haru no utsukushiki kana)

- Yosano Akiko, Midaregami: The Poetry of Yosano Akiko, 1952.

2005, the L'Oréal salon in Chennai. I was at the eye of a storm, all because Susan (one of the head stylists) and I had bonded instantly over the fact that I wanted my hair cut, as short as possible. Something with an edge, I said. Susan’s smile on hearing the word “edge” was the biggest I had ever received in a salon. She went to work with razors, clippers and two vats of colour, one copper, the other fire-engine red. Considering every other female there was getting a “trim” with the odd blonde highlight or two, Susan and I had unknowingly provided entertainment and conversational fodder for the next two and a half hours. From that day onwards, the fire-spikes got me more than just a little attention. A nun at my college (yes, it was a catholic institution) hinted that I might be setting a bad example, but found it hard to explain herself when I asked her why.

It confused the good people of the city. The look and my behavior didn’t fit into the virgin-whore dichotomy which was applied by locals to all female inhabitants of this South Indian urban village where gender is reduced to male and female, with every other identity broadly mocked, shunned or witch hunted, depending on what the mob had for breakfast. So though I never received comments fueled by either rejection or revulsion, I was broadly given to understand that I was an outsider. A strange anomaly that was ignored in the hope that it would disappear.

What’s a girl to do?

I always had short hair. My parents figured it was cheap and easy to manage. Growing up, this made me happy because I never had to deal with well-oiled hair or lice; infernal attributes of long-hairiness I observed my compatriots struggle with.

The happiness turned to angst soon enough. What my parents hadn’t told me was that there exists a direct relation between the length of a woman’s hair and her perceived attractiveness and femininity in the eyes of a majority of the human specie.

I first thought it was an Indian male thing. A thousand apologies, my countrymen. I have wronged you. You who are woefully unenlightened in terms of female sexuality, ye Freudian frou-frous! Scared of strong women due to your unaddressed mother issues, God how I love you all! Group hug.

However, time and travel has taught me otherwise. Men—and women—are biologically programmed to perceive hair length as being significantly correlated to female attractiveness (Grammer et al., 2002)
According to the Second Annual Sun/COMPAS Sex Survey (1999), the following attributes are what men seek in a potential mate:
* Average body type over 20 lbs above average
* Any kind of smile
* Brown hair over any other natural colour or dyed blonde
* Long or medium length hair over short
* The same height or slightly shorter but not taller
* The same education or more but not less
* The same income or more but not less
* A kindergarten teacher or perhaps a businesswoman but not a lawyer, and
* One who liked to wear jeans or perhaps fancy apparel, but not mini-skirts.

Sure, the sample's limited generalizability needs to be taken into account, and the culture, education and religion of the survey participants might have influenced their responses. Perhaps these answers only relate to the male readers of the Toronto Sun for the year 1999. But I would humbly proffer the opinion that demographic differences despite, optimal hair length is a pretty engendered idea in our collective awareness.

Women (and men) across cultures have written about the emotional connection they have with their protein filaments. Hiromi Tsuchiya Dollase, assistant professor of Japanese at Vassar College, has written on female sexuality in the poetry of Yosano Akiko. According to her,

“Hair is another important symbol of femininity. Long and black hair has been admired and depicted in works of art for centuries… it is part of women’s identity. Long black hair symbolizes the nobility, gracefulness and sexuality of aristocrat women. The image of hair is a significant motif in the depiction of romantic situations in Japanese literature. Yosano Akiko, who grew up reading classic literature, had a romantic attachment to the traditional image of hair and a longing for the passionate and romantic love which is associated with beautiful long hair.
Measures my hair a full five feet
And washed and combed so soft and fair
As is my heart virginal and sweet
I cherish with a tender care
[trans. Honda Heihachiro]
(Kami goshaku tokinaba mizu ni yawarakaki
Onnna gokorowa himete hanataji)
The girl's soft, black and tender hair is cherished by the girl herself. Just like her cleanly washed hair, she is pure and innocent... In ancient court poetry, hair was often used to express the inner feelings of women. The movement of hair was used as a perfect means of expressing such feelings as anger, frustration, confusion, and jealousy which were caused by romantic relationships with men. Izumi Shikibu, a female poet from 11th century, presents a wonderfully emotional hair image:
My black hair tangled
As my own tangled thoughts,
I lie here alone,
Dreaming of one who has gone,
Who stroked my hair till it shone.
(Kurokami no midaremo shirazu
uchifuseba mazukakiyarishi hitozo koishiki)
Black tangled hair implies the confusion and uneasy feeling caused by love relationships. Tangled hair also suggests erotic beauty and implies the intimacy of men and women in bed… The flood of emotion and overwhelming feelings of love are expressed through hair.”

Why did no one tell me this?

Oh, wait. Perhaps they did. Except their stories never included women with beautiful, long hair who did much more than tend gardens or their families, cast spells and then get kidnapped and rescued in equal amounts. Instead of embracing this idea of femininity, I decided to go another way. Would I have had the same personality and received the same attention, positive and negative, if my hair had been of a different length? I have no way of knowing this.

I do know that during my two year experiment with long hair, I received far more compliments and admiration from both sexes than ever before. Men I hadn’t spoken to in a while saw my picture and made amusing attempts to re-establish contact. Women began discussing how they ran their household and took care of their kids with me. Cosmetic counter girls stopped ignoring my presence. “Uncles” and “Aunties” began asking me about my future, if I had “found anyone” yet.

Maybe it just got to be a bit much. A drag act that didn't have a curtain call.

Reger, Myers & Einwohner, the authors of Identity work in social movements, write about the song "I Am What I Am" from the musical, The Bird Cage--

In drag shows, this song becomes a ritual not only because of the frequency of its inclusion but also because the manner in which it is performed is highly predictable. During each performance of the song, Margo removes her wig at the end of the number, breaking the illusion of femininity by exposing her underlying short and thinning hair... Removing the wig at the end of this song is a common technique institutionalized by drag performers across the country... Describing her feelings the first time she saw a drag queen perform "I Am What I Am", a focus group participant stated: "... I always get choked up now when I hear that song because there was a thing of acceptance..."

Hmm. The end of an act, then.

I do love the rituals of having long hair, though. The oiling, shampooing, conditioning, the rinse and repeat. The towel turban I could wear high on my head. Flicking it over my shoulder just when I knew that adorable lad who got off at Kendall Square was looking. Hell, I’ll say it-- I loved the admiration. Years of keeping the hair treatment-free had resulted in the long black silk that is the gift of my mother's genetics.

But it got hard to deal with, on windy days and late nights back on a long train ride. The hair was tied up when I had to work. The more I had to work, the more annoying the mop got.

Whimsical Assumption #1: Women in positions of power or who commute at a high rate have shorter, more manageable, practical do’s.

Corollary to Whimsical Assumption # 1: Women with shorter, more manageable, practical do’s have to work harder to allay perceptions of them being dominating, mean-spirited, hard, butch, gay, a misandrist or given to hard-line radical feminism.

There’s a great article on Divine Caroline regarding Michelle Obama and her hairstyle choices:

In her own role as potential First Lady, Michelle Obama’s hair is politically correct. America expects the wife of Barack Obama, the man who wants to be president, to project an image of sophistication and near perfection. That image includes having hair that doesn’t make waves.

The article goes on to illustrate the troubled relationship that hair and politics have in the U.S. Throw in racial stereotypes and it turns into a Molotov cocktail—

Mainstream America considers styles that reflect the European aesthetic more acceptable and less likely to offend. Hairstyles with African roots don’t get the same respect. To say someone has a nappy head is considered an insult, and the word “nappy,” which merely describes the kinky texture of hair, is practically considered a profanity. In polite circles, the word is euphemistically referred to as “natural.”
Natural hair wearers have seen their politics; patriotism and even their hygiene come under attack. Their Afros, braids, locks and twists have been considered unprofessional, and many who have worn the styles have been demoted or have lost their jobs. Wearers of natural hairstyles also have not escaped being labeled subversive or being perceived as social misfits.

Jessica Lyons over at AlterNet has an article on why female hairstyles in politics benefit from being unchanging. Read it here.

According to Connie Koppelman, a professor of the Women's Studies Program at SUNY Stony Brook,

Hairstyles can signify conformity, for example, to army regulations, monastic celibacy, or any group-determined aesthetic. Hairstyles can also signify rebellion. Today many women choose to shave their heads as a sign of female bonding and sometimes as a form of protest against the beauty myth. Whether they go bald for personal or political reasons, bald-headed women are often perceived as threatening, perhaps because of the negative connotations associated with baldness as a sign of age, punishment, illness, or rebellion... hair ’s sexual attraction is controlled by society-or we should say patriarchy--as it has been for thousands of years. According to many polls, hair remains one of the six most sensuous parts of the body.

This is all very interesting, of course, but where does that leave all of us, the ones who aren’t running for government any time soon, who aren't starting a revolution, the ones who left the confines of Indian tradition seven seas behind, the ones who cut it on a whim, cut it because shampoo costs too damn much, cut it or shaved it clean because it was less painful than watching it fall off in clumps or two strands at a time?

What happens if you live in a country like India, where it doesn’t matter how liberal, educated or well-traveled you and your parents are, where everything about your appearance is judged as you grow up, and then judged twice as much once you approach that brutal phase referred to in the vernacular as “the marriageable age”?

Walking back from my hair appointment, my neck feeling colder than it had in a long while, I considered what I had given up, if I had given up anything at all. The stylist kept pausing to ask “are you okay?” Apparently she is used to women bursting into tears mid-snip. I thought back to that long ago evening with Susan in Chennai and laughed. I remembered how I tossed my head, a rockstar now, getting high on every look of shock, disgust and admiration. I remember wearing a sari that matched my highlights for a college ceremony.


I remember spiking my hair carefully, wearing a sardonic look with humility and grace, and feeling incredibly left out of the female collective of my colleagues at the end of that day. Still alone, that strange anomaly.

Walking through the front door, my other half greeted me with a smile and the following words—“you look just like you did the first time I met you.”
And just like that, my neck was not cold anymore.


Do what you have to do, ladies and gentlemen. Wear your hair in a way that fills you with pride, comfort and sexiness at anytime of the day or night. Cut it to make a statement, cut it to because you are tired, cut it to donate to Locks of Love. Fight that niggling urge to explain yourself.

And if you lose, like I did, go blog, and send me the link, willya?