1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

It was a warm sunny Tuesday when my mother decided we should fly the Union Jack in public. And by public, she meant in front of our otherwise inconspicuous suburban house in Penang. Lucky was made to grab the rusty ladder we had in the backyard and climb it to fix the crisp, orange-y smelling flag above the house. Preparing for social stigma was something all the children in my family had learnt from a young age. Why even the dogs didn't bark when they saw people coming. Instead, they hid their faces in the failed apple garden. "Now, children," she declared imperiously, "we will do our fortnightly assembly on Friday. Mr and Mrs Mukherjee will be there, and so will their children. I expect you to be on your best behaviour." Mama stood on the gardening bench to make up for her lack of height, and squinted uncomfortably at us four children sitting on the verandah, for the Stupid Sun which was Not British At All was shining in her eyes. Papa nodded his head in a...

She fingered the cross around her neck. Quinn Chan, the devout Christian, the most faithful, the good Protestant fundamentalist daughter- she it was who now had no faith. Looking at the bible on her table, she turned her face away and stared at herself in the mirror. Her once long, thick black hair had been cut short, close to her chin. It was now more fashionable, as Mr. Quentin said, her Geography teacher, longer at the back and short at the front. Like a horizontal upward sloping slash. She watched carefully the gap between her two front teeth, her pale almost purplish lips, her mole just above her chin that stuck out slightly. Where was He? She'd sat with Cosima, crying her eyes out. Her sallow hands clutching at darker ones, wringing them again and again. Where was He? Cosima shook her head, I don't know. I don't know. She'd always felt this inescapable sense of people leaving , always leaving her life. Johnny had left, and for months afterwards, she saw ch...

The heretic alone stands, innocent, Condemned yet with no blood on her hands- Who is guilty and who is just? God will not ask who did not cut their hair? What is so hurtful and cruel about your words that seek to damn and scald and wound are not your words themselves but the fact that they are coming from you. You who this apostate loved, loved so deeply too much sometimes that she couldn't open her mouth for fear that tears would fall out. The world outside rages in war and conflict and pain but the apostate's beloved ones are too busy sentencing This apostate for her sins. You are not a proper not a whole not a true Sikh how Can You be if you do not, it's because you do Not! Goodnight, the apostate says, I am going to seek something deeper I love you still, dear ones, I cannot forsake you And I am apostate Like you have forsaken me.

Her dreams were beautiful, they were solid and coloured vividly, as if carefully drawn by an artistic hand on the whitest, purest canvas. And they were always about America. Umrika. Oh, America. Land of Milk and Honey Freedom God Guns Bible thumpers Immigrants Emigrants Hollywood Burgers New York honey You Gotta Say it like Ya mean It Ellis Island Democrats Republicans Trump Clinton Obama You Gotta Vote Are Ya kidding' me? How d'ya werk this damn thing Eileen? Collard Greens Black Lives Matter The Latino Vote Catholics Muslims Christians Sikhs Hindus Jews Buddhists I can't say I guess I'm atheist Wow that's progressive. Umrika. The Real America was hidden somewhere outside her small bubble of posters, irascible like a fever itch in the dark nights. Sometimes the itch was so strong even after she'd thrown off blankets she'd toss and turn , slapping at the slippery sheen of sweaty skin the damp heat swelling everywhere. The Real America was not POS...

Dear Boys, I don't know if this letter will pass the Bechdel test or not, but seeing as I am currently grieving for my lack of you in my life, and given the other unfortunate circumstances of rejection, I believe I am granted the rare pass to focus one scion of my attention onto your affairs. Or, rather, my lack thereof. Pardon the pun, although it wasn't really a pun, not really sure what it was. Whatever, um, just, ignore it. Okay! You know how, according to Hollywood archetypes, there's always the 'Cool Girl'. Yeah. Her. The nonchalant, effortlessly blasé girl who doesn't give a damn but yet can do everything under the sun whilst still looking hot. (Examples: Jennifer Lawrence, Mila Kunis, Olivia Munn, Olivia Wilde, my best friend-cum-acquaintance S) Buzzfeed explains this phenomenon well! Yeah, you know what sucks? Like legitimately second-world problems middle class bougie sucks? Being friends with that girl and being the DUFF. Designated Ugly Fat ...

Dear Ben, Thank you for everything. I never thought I could love someone as deeply as I love you, so completely it overwhelms me. Ben, you make me smile everyday, and laugh and forget my worries, Ben! Ben you are my everything! You are not only a great friend to me, but also a great husband and father to our five beautiful children. Jared and Jesse tell me everyday after school how much they are proud of you, that you fight everyday for  tikkun olam , for acts of kindness at your job. Jessline wants to be like you, and fix the world, Joshua, to think like you and possess your brilliant mind. Jacob, our baby, has your self-deprecating sense of humour that puts everyone at ease. Even our dog loves you, and Vern is such a picky affection-lavisher. You are the reason we all get up everyday and have faith in the world, my social justice warrior, feminist, egalitarian, liberal, Democratic love of my life. Happy 10th anniversary, M.

'Sorry, Q, Mama said knock you out.' I imagine myself saying this to the tall, ginger Q. She has an upturned, ski-slope nose that is somehow in keeping with the rest of her careful, precise features- the small off-purple lips that seem devoid of oxygen, the sparse red eyebrows plucked almost to non-existence, the storm of freckles that dominate her sunken cheekbones that are vaguely reminiscent of a Viking forefather. Sharp chin, angular face like the rest of her, even her personality like her body seemed to be filled with hidden edges, sharp angles, no soft crevice. She'd be shocked, tucking her long hair behind her pointy ears, pressing her folded arms against her chest. Then it would turn into subdued annoyance, at my obstinance, for she hated anyone questioning her authority. 'You what?' she'd say, the words blasé from her puckered painted pink mouth, not like a rosebud but a plump pomfret mouth, the fishy lips quivering indignantly.  Her uppe...