Dear all racist Americans,
First, Nina Davuluri is Indian, not an Arab or Egyptian. These are different countries, with different languages, cultures and customs. Please check your Atlas.
Second, Nina Davuluri is not a Muslim. She is a Hindu. For those of you ignorant to not know what these are, they are separate religions, with very different beliefs. Therefore, Nina Davuluri is not a terrorist, and had nothing to do with 9/11.
Also, did you know that not all Muslims are terrorists? I know, shocker, right?
Third, she is born an American. If you can have a black president, why can’t you have a brown Miss America?
And finally, by the same logic, you white people are of European descent and therefore have no right to win Miss America, either, correct? Only native Americans should be allowed to run, right?
While I think it’s fantastic that you are pointing out the problematic nature of people’s racist reactions to the crowning of Nina Davuluri as Miss America, I did find your wording of part of this post a little worrisome. I know you are intending to do a good thing, and please don’t take what I say the wrong way, since I really appreciate the message and intent behind your post.
However, when you say that “Nina Davuluri is not a Muslim. She is a Hindu…Therefore, Nina Davuluri is not a terrorist, and had nothing to do with 9/11”, it seems to me to suggest that just because somebody is not Muslim, it clears them from the possibility of being a terrorist — entailing that only Muslims are terrorists.
Now, I do not think Nina Davuluri is a terrorist, and that is not my message here at all. I realize that you have also pointed out that ‘not all Muslims are terrorists’, but by saying that just because someone is not Muslim, therefore they are not a terrorist troubles me a little. It suggests to me that, as long as one is not a Muslim, one cannot be a terrorist, or at least will not/should not be accused of such, whereas if one is Muslim, that suspicion is valid simply based on that part of one’s identity.
I am pretty sure you did not mean it this way, but I think it is important to be careful with such a sensitive issue. I do not mean to offend you at all, and I apologize if I have, but I felt this was something important for me to voice.
Thank you for your phone number sent in an instant message spanning the country that is neither yours or mine. How’s the view from the other coast? That’s all I wanted to ask. But I could not hold the quarters. My hands shake when I am excited or terrified. I don’t think I could ever quite tell the difference. I’m sorry I never said hello. If it means anything at all, I wrote about payphones for a year and thought about them for two more — and you were always the on the other end of that call.
My skin itches before the start of winter to let me know that it’s going to be a cold one. This week has been cold like it used to be when I still had recess. Now there is no such clear division between work and play. Now, I am always doing, doing things I want or have to do. Sometimes I cannot tell the difference.
It seems that it is possible not to want what is best for people you love. Sometimes it’s because you just don’t understand what the best things are for them. And other times you let something selfish get in the way. The latter is the uglier of the two, but also easier to fix. It is easier to remove ourselves from equations than we let ourselves believe.
My hair goes in curls in the springtime, and summertime, and autumn. It is in curls even in the winter now. I often wonder what this means, or if it is supposed to mean anything at all. I read meaning into spirals going downward, springing upward — both ways at the same time. I am both ways at the same time. They say you can’t go anywhere with one foot in the boat and the other on the shore, but I have built my home in the place where the ocean meets the beach.
If distance makes the heart grow fonder, then why is it harder to love people when they are away? And harder still to love those who are closer, but not close enough to close the gaps left by whomever is missing. Empty space is better filled out like a form, with scrawled in reminders for lunch dates and work shifts and movie screening times. Somehow this is the best that we can do.
Someone needs to write a list of numbers you can call when the band aren’t very good and you’re not having a nice time.
I really feel as though I need to talk somebody older and wiser.
I’ve recently been in a very decorative mood. I’m trying to think of inexpensive and creative ways to make my room here at university feel a bit more personal. This is just a little something that I came up with as a result.
I found these mason jars at a thrift store and instantly loved them! I’ve had a thing for mason jars ever since I made glow-in-the-dark mason jars for my room (perhaps something that should go in an upcoming post), but I felt that these especially had a lot of character with their embossed writing. So I brought them home and used them to hold fake flowers. They’ve really helped to freshen up my room, and I’m really happy with how they look sitting on top of my bookshelf.
bbg4evr-deactivated20121119 said: Ahhh I love this :)
Thank you! Knowing more people like this blog really encourages me to share more of my life. =)
I went to the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto yesterday. I’ve always thought it’d be a great place to take some pictures, and I finally got a chance to photograph there. =)
“It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed is you.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via theflowershop)
I am usually not one to do something like this… but this really bothered me. This is not actually a quote by Fitzgerald. This is a quote from the screenplay of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, written by Eric Roth. Fitzgerald did write a short story of the same name by which the film was inspired, but it is a very short work in which this line (and many of the events in the film) does not appear.
Solace is an uncollected Salinger story from 1944. When I can say no more than what the tremor in my left hand articulates, I like to pull myself under the cover of a February I never lived. The words that were read originally in the pages of The Saturday Evening Post now comfort me through whichever white screen is nearest. I wonder if Salinger knew that long after the thoughts ever crossed his mind, that after his own passing, there would be a girl who reads Both Parties Concerned whenever she needs to feel that there is someone to wake if the nighttime becomes too frightening.