Random Notes from the First Week of School

Waiting at the bus stop with other parents, one woman remarked on the toe rings of an Indian woman who was also sending her kids on the bus. The Indian woman explained that the rings were put there by her husband at their wedding, which we suburban American housewives found fascinating.. And then she did the coolest thing: she told us about herself. I’m not the kind of person who pries into the lives of others, so I’ve never had the stones to ask an immigrant what it’s like for them. And the crazy thing is that I am curious, but I don’t want to bother them.

Anyway, she told us about the toe rings, and how she never takes them off. And she also explained that the diamond stud in her left nostril was put there by her mother when she came of age. It was a symbol to the community that she was a woman. (I told her that the symbol for me was standing in line at the drug store buying maxi-pads. I think I like her culture better.)

“People in my office think I am some kind of hipster, that I am so cool,” she said, “but I am really just a conservative Indian woman.”

And then she looked wistfully at her 10-year-old daughter and shrugged her shoulders. “But that’s just me. It is not the way for her.”

I don’t know, it was just a beautiful moment in my otherwise waterlogged week.

I really like Indian culture too. I do think she’s a hipster! I wish I could wear a sari without looking like I’m making some bold fashion statement. The way Indian women dress is something I find incredibly beautiful. It’s so much better than the way American women dress with our sexuality on display. Indian women dress in a feminine style that means something…something other than check out these ta-tas — and it’s absolutely timeless. I’ll tell you what — there are no Indian Winx, and that’s a good thing.

Speaking of culture clashes, ever since Edison was in second grade, he has loved the following joke: Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine. Get it? He finds that hilarious after all these years. We all have that kind of joke, don’t we? For me it’s that I have a dentist appointment at tooth-hurty. He he he.

Anyway, Edison started taking Spanish this week, and over dinner, he told us that the joke doesn’t work in Spanish because “siete ocho nueve!” Ha ha ha. (He added the ha’s in a deep voice.)

Siete ocho nueve.