Posts Tagged ‘narrative’

Journal of Peasant Studies – Peasant Pasts: History and Memory in Western India

// September 23rd, 2008 // 4 Comments » // Desi-Indian, Ethnic Studies, Nationalism, Political Theory

This book review should appear in the upcoming edition of the Journal of Peasant Studies. I cannot publish the whole bit here even though it is my work, since I signed over licensing rights but it should be available through your college databases.

I don’t know whether I will have time for more book reviews in the future or if it is an endeavor that I am any good at, but it was worth experimenting and I am not too displeased with the results. (The Publisher ain’t complaining; why should I)?

Review: Vinayak Chaturvedi, Peasant Pasts: History and Memory in Western India, University of California Press, 2007.

by Prerna Lal

Small excerpt:

The untold narrative of peasant classes marginalized from the promise of the postcolonial nation-state is a popular subject of research and criticism among subaltern scholars seeking to pose ruptures and discontinuities in the hegemonic history of Indian nationalism.

In Peasant Pasts: History and Memory in Western India, Chaturvedi embarks on this project after a chance discovery while pouring through archives on the agrarian economy of Gujarat: he discovers notes by the district magistrate about the historically-celebrated Patidars forcibly extracting labor from the Dhalara peasants in Kheda. Upon further investigation, Chaturvedi discovers that the Dharalas were considered a ‘criminal class’ by both the colonialists and Indian nationalists through the passage of the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871 and given their treatment, it came as no surprise that the Dharalas opposed Patidar-led nationalist politics along with colonialism.

Enamored by the prospects of an untold history of peasant pasts, the central thesis of this scholarship revolves around the actions, practices and discourses of the Dharala peasants before the emergence of an Indian nation-state. Chaturvedi claims that the Dharalas were political in their own right and their opposition to Patidar nationalism allied with Gandhi did not denote that these peasants lacked an understanding of politics or an inability to imagine political community. On the contrary, through rigorous fieldwork and archival study, Chaturvedi lays out a fragmentary and episodic history of the Dharala peasants that establishes their broad political discourses, complex understandings of political community, and subsequent resistance to both colonialism and nationalism.

If history is indeed written by victors…

// May 13th, 2008 // No Comments » // All things LGBT

I take great inspiration from this quote by Jennifer Beals at an NAACP event a few years ago:

“It has been said, ‘History is written by the victors.’ I take this to mean we can make ourselves victorious by writing, and then rewriting our own stories. In a country and culture so dominated by media, by the manipulation of words and stories, telling the tales of people whose stories historically have not been told is a radical act and I believe an act that can change the world and help rewrite history. Imagine if all of our stories were told?”

Yesterday, Ilene Chaiken, producer, writer and director of the L Word wrote something she called a rant about how when the L word is over next year, we would again be relegated back into the closet. Once again, we would hop from channel to channel trying to find some representation or other of our lives, some acknowledgment of our existence. She pretty much ends with a call to action:

And for those of us in the LGBT community, I say, if history is indeed written by the victors, let’s make ourselves victorious by writing our own history… and directing it and producing it and starring in it.

I hardly have any skills in screenwriting, much less acting. My artistic skills are also sorely lacking though I can always use Photoshop. But I think I am trying to say, in my own way, how much I believe in writing our own stories, in controlling (or trying to) our own destinies. So day after day, I blog away, sometimes about exceedingly important social issues, other times about my own addictions and obsessions, but I know that I have a space, a niche on my blog. And it does reach out to some people.

Today I told a reporter interviewing me about the pro-migrant santuary sphere what purpose or objective we were trying to achieve and I told him that as an individual I am trying to change the discourse of the immigration debate; to move beyond “illegal is illegal.” Because, seriously, besides redundant, it really doesn’t do anything to reform our broken system. But I am not too bent on convincing the Minutemen (or the Neo-Nazis and whatever anti-gay groups are called)–it is the mainstream American, the working class person that we hope to win over.

I sometimes feel a sense of betrayal to some or other aspect of my identity–it cannot be helped. I cannot possibly represent every social identity that is expected of me and neither can I vouch to speak for anyone else but myself. As an immigrant who has seen some really dark days of immigration to this country, I have been part of a movement of undocumented students, to get my dear friends to start blogs, to take back the discourse in the debate over our future. My MA thesis was mostly about a country that we left behind but a culture that we have held onto. It pains me at times to read bad news about Fiji, but I trudge on. My gayness probably shames the Indian community (that I avoid like the plague) but its my pride and empowerment, no matter how silly it might sound to be proud of your sexual orientation–after all, it cannot be helped. But I indulge myself even though I am still too shy to go to Pride or other LGBT social events to which I am invited (or maybe just a homebody)!

I don’t know what sort of history I am supposed to write or be a part of at the end of the day but I know that I don’t want to give anyone the pen or paper to write my story for me. Sometimes I feel daunted by a huge responsibility, like a wounded soldier in a war for which I did not sign up; I just want to disappear into oblivion for a few days. Other times, I write for myself out of total self-absorption (maybe like right now)! I don’t know if JB would consider my incessant blogging about our stories, our lives, our troubles as a radical act. I suppose the net has created a space for the subaltern to speak in–and the subaltern is speaking out.

This is probably one of my shout-outs to my dear friends in the pro-migrant sanctuary sphere for promoting a sense of belonging, to my idols Jennifer Beals and Laurel Holloman and the entire cast/crew of the L word for helping us form a community and something to hang onto, to my professors for guiding me towards the light, and to everyone reading for encouraging me to carry on. We may call this my rant. Si, se puede.

Appropriate songs-poetry for DREAM Act students?

// March 5th, 2008 // 3 Comments » // Immigration

Ok, so there is a part of me that appreciates some literary genius once in a while. Where are the DREAMers that write poetry, lyrics, sing or just know their music in general?

Are there any particular pre-existing songs or poetry that reminds you of your situation? Of life as an immigrant? An undocumented student?

This could be a fun project. We could use some quotes as slogans and put some on banners.

I found this today (we are on the “waiting” / “stillness” theme for this month I think while I churn out enough material for my papers) :

I’VE BEEN WAITIN’ FOR TOMORROW (ALL OF MY LIFE)

I’m hiding in the corner
Of an overgrown garden
Covering my body in leaves
And trying not to breathe
All my childhood dreams
Are bursting at the seams
And dangling around my knees
I’ve been deformed by emotional scars
And the cancer of love has eaten out my heart
I’ve been stripped bare and nobody cares
And all the people I looked up to are no longer there

All desires have been denied
To put me in this state of mind
Another year over and what have I done
All my aspirations have shriveled in the sun
I’m crippled by guilt, blinded by science
I’ve been waitin’ for tomorrow all of my life

I’ve been filled with useless information
Spewed out by papers and radio stations
I’ve been hounded by fair-weather friends
Sowing the seeds for my discontent
Life is like a sewer and I’m trying to wade thru her
I threw in my money and made my wish
But sleeping boys catch no fish

All desires have been denied
To put me in this state of mind
Another year over and what have I done
All my aspirations have shriveled in the sun
I’m crippled by guilt, blinded by science
I’ve been waitin’ for tomorrow all of my life

All my childhood dreams are dangling around my knees
My mind has been polluted and my energy diluted
My mind has been polluted and my energy diluted
MY MIND HAS BEEN POLLUTED AND MY ENERGY DILUTED

Fugazi Waiting Room

I am a patient boy
I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait
My time is like water down a drain
Everybody’s moving,
Everybody’s moving,
Everybody’s moving, moving, moving, moving
Please don’t leave me to remain
In the waiting room
I don’t want the news
I cannot use it
I don’t want the news
I won’t live by it
Sitting outside of town
Everybody’s always down
Tell me why?
Because… they can’t get up
Ahhh… Come on and get up
Come on and get up
But I don’t sit idly by
Ahhh…
I’m planning a big surprise
I’m gonna fight for what I want to be
I won’t make the same mistakes
Because I know
Because I know how much time that wastes
And Function
Function is the key
To the the waiting room
I don’t want the news
I cannot use it
I don’t want the news
I won’t live by it
Sitting outside of town
Everybody’s always down
Tell me why?
Because… they can’t get up
Ahhh… Come on and get up
Up for the waiting room
Sitting in the waiting room
Ahhh…
Tell me why?
Because… they can’t get up

Heck, even art that reminds you of your experience?

Government Bureau

She was 17 when she was born

// December 25th, 2007 // No Comments » // All things LGBT

She sat there almost tranquilized fearing the consequences of her forthcoming actions, the path she had chosen to embark on. No doubt it was the road less traveled, it was harsh, an embattled life full of challenges, a thorny ride with no sure prospects of bearing any economical fruit.

Blink. Deep breath.

She opened her eyes and looked into the mirror. Unshed tears but also unswerving conviction stared back at her, beckoning her, challenging her to go through with her life-altering act.

She narrowed her eyes and bit her lower lip as she stared at herself, not out of indecision, but resolve. Jaws tightened and clenched together, moving to one side.

Click.

“So what should I give you?” The unfamiliar voice interrupted her stream of thoughts, if only for a second.

She sought the questioning eyes of the other woman in the mirror and spoke with sheer determination and will.

“Chop it off, all of it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” her voice unwavering, her confidence growing.

With that the woman began to slice through the long locks of oppression. They were without nerves and yet the pain of their coming separation visible in those unshed tears. The pain of the life left behind. But with that pain, a relief, waves of liberation rose as the chains fell all around the chair. In less than 20 minutes, the deed was done.

She looked at herself in the mirror. And smiled.

She was 17 when she was born.

I refuse to succumb to self-deprecating, self-loathing mentality

// December 5th, 2007 // No Comments » // Discourse Studies

Seriously, what have we done that is so shameful or grounds to feel guilty about? NOTHING.

Don’t tell me I am not human. Don’t tell me I am not as good as you. And certainly don’t tell me that my opinions are not as good as that of a straight, white male, American citizen.

I am a bit too educated to succumb to any categories, labels or tags anyone wants to give me. That’s the problem with this country; we have a labeling mentality. When people do not fit into our neatly constructed boxes of white/black, male/female, gay/straight, legal/illegal, we don’t know how to deal with it. The self-constructed anomaly becomes an Other, an object of our curiosity and obsession that we ‘treat’ as an alien foreign invasion, medicate, legislate, condition or control.

Just quit, I am too tired.

Oh, I got the internship. I have a couple days to decide whether I want to give my services to a good organization or whether I want to sit at home and DREAM more. Alright, time to pull up my socks and impress for the PhD programs.

How this feels…

// November 13th, 2007 // No Comments » // Immigration

This was written a long while ago

Ever wonder what compels a person to go to bed every night wishing that they wouldn’t see tomorrow? Lay in bed and watch the clock as the seconds tick by, turn into minutes and the minutes turn into hours?
Maybe its fear of bad outcomes, dread about something upcoming, maybe its immense physical or emotional pain or maybe the person is just psychotic?

But what if it is none of the above? What if its something very ironic – what if for this person, time doesn’t mean seconds, minutes, hours, days or months, but they are stuck in a moment where time has come to standstill? So this person is alive, but not really living? That the tomorrow of tonight is simple a promise betrayed?
A normal person would love to be in a timeless existence and to keep to themselves and do whatever they want while having their clothes, food, shelter, and even their laundry done for them. But what if this person isn’t normal? What if they have great potential, extraordinary intelligence and a noble character underneath a brittle surface? And what if instead of doing what they were born to do, they desperately seek solace and comfort in things they wouldn’t normally do?

What happens when the ones closest to you, the ones that gave birth to you and the ones that claim to love you and stand by you forever, betray you in a way that you question every existing relationship? Why are virtual strangers in distant lands apparently privy to your most intimate emotions more so than those who claim to know you in person but don’t really know anything about you? What happens when life and time begin to move virtually? When you only live and think in a timeless virtual existence, much like the Phantom Zone?
Is it better than the daily struggles of life? Working 8-5, coming home to cook and clean, tending to people and relationships?

To top it off, what happens while you are in the Phantom Zone and the people around you are on a different time plane, and continue to be moronic and ask stupid questions that you can answer more intelligently even without being in their world?

What if you know your potential will always remain inside and buried, slowly killed off by dispassion due to the timeless existence? Freedom means another place, another time, another identity, another type of society, another mode of production – the combination of impossible anomalies.

This brings up a compelling question. Is life really than an imprisonment? Vacations, chocolates, television sets and forays into illegitimate relationships an escape from captivity? Do we not all console ourselves at some point of our education and career that it all gets better one day? That we won’t have to work so hard, be in a better position and be able to afford a lot more? At what point are we free from the struggles of daily life, free from tangled relationships, free from the judgment of people and society, free from norms and values, free from war, disease, poverty and hunger? Does freedom then become elusive, a state of being rather than a material condition that can be conceptualized and actualized?
Are we just like the spider on the cobweb which spins long, complex and intricate webs but will always be stuck in the confines of one small place until they die?

What happens when the spinning in our heads reaches this conclusion over and over and over?
It’s when you go to bed at night wishing for everything to end.