After a most difficult month when many major events in my personal life shook me up, I was looking forward to an hour at the local nail salon. My hands would be immersed in warm water, and I would be forced into putting away my mobile phone and unplug from the world. I had been in constant and crisis-mode contact with various family members for several weeks. I was looking forward to letting my mind wander and be aware of the physical and emotional worlds in a different way.
I had returned from a brief vacation that was filled with worry about my father’s health and my mother’s inability and unwillingness to address anything beyond the most immediate of worries. The day after I returned from the vacation, I became ill with what was quickly diagnosed as the Delta variant of the Covid-19 virus – a breakthrough infection – that left me fatigued and unable to resume my normal life. Then my father’s health took a serious turn for the worse. I was unable to travel to India to join my family through his rapid deterioration and eventual death a few weeks later. I tried to stay connected with my family by phone, WhatsApp, and video calls during this difficult time. These were poor substitutes, but we all had to make do in this extraordinary time. All in all, it had been a brutally difficult month and I greatly looked forward to some rest, if only for an hour.
I took my rings off to prepare for the manicure remembering with sorrow that the simple gold band with a starburst pattern had been my father’s. That ring itself was symbolic of so many difficult emotions for me. My father had only been seven years old when his father died, and he underwent the Upanayanam, the Brahmin rite of passage to become “twice-born” or initiated into bachelorhood of a Brahmin male. This was a ceremony that was denied to women in the caste. Since that age, he had had to perform yearly rituals to safeguard the family’s well-being and keep his father’s soul at peace. This gold band was given to him on the day he was supposed to have become “twice-born” at only 7 years old. Women, excluded from many of the Hindu ceremonies and rituals, were second-class. I had been an angry teenager as I became aware of the in-built sexism in the religion. I had since avoided attending the many male-centric and patriarchal ceremonies after speaking up within my family brought no changes in their practices. And, yet, I had started wearing this ring after my last visit home to India eighteen months ago when I had an intuition that I would not get to see my father in person again. A child’s ring of responsibility now sits on my grown-up but little finger. I have tried to protect myself from rituals, rites, and relatives who are steeped in them. The three “R”s, as I came to regard them, were painful to me. While some of my family saw only the good that came of the Rs, (comfort, prayer for the health and well-being of the family and children, as well as a belief that all these helped process grief) I saw only sexism, racism and the role of entrenched privilege of some classes of people in India. In my adult years, even though I had managed to avoid many events and ceremonies in the larger family system, I could not help trying to speak up about how my father’s death ceremonies were to be performed. I tried to have my mother understand how my brother-in-law would feel about being excluded from some of the death ceremonies because of his belonging to another and lower caste. My sister had married outside of our caste, and I fumed inwardly at the unfairness of excluding him from some of the death ceremonies simply based on his caste. He is a central figure in our family, holding that role as a naturally compassionate and connected leader. Yet, if my mother were to blindly follow the rites and rituals prescribed by the priests, they would exclude him from some of the ceremonies. My father had also not wanted elaborate rituals for himself, but my mother made her decisions based on her spiritual beliefs as well as those who pressured her to do so. As the family’s only son in a male-centric culture, my brother bore the pressure of the older generation’s need for all the rituals, and, the major brunt of the “R”s. I was secretly embarrassed by my relief at not having to take on the “R”s by being physically present there even as I was consumed by sorrow over my father’s death. After dozens of phone calls, I gave up. I felt all my speaking up was in vain as the elders inexorably went ahead with whatever rituals they were attached to, ignoring all my protests.
About a month after my father’s death, I made an appointment for a manicure. I went into the salon and was greeted by Anna, the lady in charge who asked why my daughter was not with me today. “Big girl. Tall girl. I remember her. Very polite. Very kind,” she nodded approvingly. The salon had installed plastic barriers between the pedicure thrones. Plastic partitions helped stop the direct flow of air between the nail technician and the client. The front and back doors of the salon were open to have as much air flow as possible. I picked out a color to amuse myself. Even if I did not intend to get my nails painted, I loved looking at the shiny bottles and reading the evocative names on them. Sahara Sands, Monaco Moonshine, Sand n Champagne, Rocky Romance, Burnt Sienna, Maui Blue, Green Envy, and Grieving Gray all held the promise of more than mere color.
I stood around while they prepared the nail station. Anna motioned me into the chair. This salon was relatively new to me. Although I am usually friendly and try to engage in some small talk, I was mostly silent that day. Many of the women working and running these nail parlors look like they are from Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos or other Southeast Asian countries having settled into this profession with its minimal requirement for English fluency.
There was a big and prominent sign on the door asking for all patrons to please wear their masks whether they were vaccinated or not. I noticed that all the technicians were masked as I was, given that the Delta variant was now on the rise. The one other client in the chair next to mine was rakishly wearing her mask over one ear, and it dangled like an earring not covering her mouth or nose. She noticed me looking in her direction and pulled the mask up over her nose and mouth and avoided further eye contact with me. She continued talking on the phone. Her nail technician was masked and worked on the customer’s feet. I looked away for a bit and after a while I noticed that the woman was back to her rakish look with the mask dangling from one ear. I tried not to look in her direction anymore but called her Just Peachy in my mind.
My father had a habit of giving people nicknames that suited their personalities or described unusual traits and behaviors; in naming her perhaps I was wondering how he would have named her. He affectionately called a cousin who would suddenly jerkily gesticulate Sam the Sudden (after a comic book popular at the time), and he did it with charm and love. So many people responded to his unreserved warmth. He used to point things out to me when we sat in the car waiting while on errands – “See that person with the red shopping bag? Look at their face. See the droop? Maybe they had Bell’s Palsy.” As a neurologist, he had a way of noticing and looking deeply. Perhaps this was one of his legacies to me – I always pay close notice to the people around me. Another new customer walked right up to Anna. She wore no mask and came and stood really close to Anna, not observing the 6-foot distance rule we all seem to have internalized after the start of the Pandemic. Anna flinched but did not step back – she shuffled back a few inches. In-Your-Face asked Anna if she could be helped at once. “Yes, yes. Have a seat. Lily is almost done there. Lily, Liz is here please,” Anna moved away, tapping young Lily on the shoulder to get her complete attention. Anna was deferential to Liz-In-Your-Face. A very different Anna from the one who greeted me at the door earlier nodding approvingly about my daughter. Anna’s face even covered by a mask was clearly embarrassed by Liz-In-Your-Face’s behavior. Neither Liz-In-Your-Face nor Just Peachy wore their masks the rest of the time they were in the salon. Just Peachy dropped her voice a bit after Liz-In-Your-Face arrived (perhaps she deferred to Liz-In-Your-Face, but it had not mattered when I had come in, or she had decided I would not mind her loud conversation) and now felt emboldened to not even keep her mask hanging from her ear. In fact, she tucked it away in her bag. Having become a majority of two seemed to sway the balance of behavior and power. I idly wondered what they would all have done if I picked up my phone and loudly spoke to an imaginary friend. “Yes yes, I only got diagnosed last week. Muffled?” I would shift to mask-as-earring mode. “Better now? See, who wants to wear that all the time, no? My symptoms are better now. But 10 days in bed. I am supposed to be safe to go out as of today. Yes. Really bad. But you know, I am healthy. Only 50 years.” (Now boldly lying and taking away at least 10 years from my age, astutely estimating that Liz-In-Your-Face as well as Just Peachy are at least 65 years old.) “No. No! Really? (Now in Tamil,) What do these fellows know?” Now making sure mockery and condescension dripped, I would drop in words like: Serious, Hospital, FDA, What! Who died? Really! Tch-Tch. I entertained myself with these imaginary monologues, mixing up Tamil, and enough English to alarm them, my anger now rising as comedy and spite. I wondered if these inconsiderate clients would pull on their masks after listening to my imagined conversation. I had to slam the brakes on this very quickly as I imagined the shock of Anna and the ladies who worked in the salon. I left the salon after silently paying, nodding my thanks to Anna and having let my imaginary conversation evaporate into sullen resentment as well as a sense of shame.
~~~~~o~~~~~
“I would have left immediately!” exclaimed my immune-compromised friend when I told her about the incident the next day. “Places that do not enforce the rules do not deserve our business,” she said. “I am working on speaking up,” I said lamely to my friend. I did not have the energy to discuss the issue further. Perhaps I also wondered if she could see this as a class and race issue or was too focused on health and safety only. “We have to speak up,” she continued, “or else, these businesses will not enforce the rules. They are part of the problem. They should have asked the women to wear masks or leave. Or you could have left.” She seemed to know exactly what she would do.
~~~~~o~~~~~
In a way, this writing is the more complete conversation I wish I could have had with my friend.
I felt like I was on the horns of a dilemma. Speaking up would endanger the livelihoods of the women working at the salon. Not speaking up would empower the clients to continue abusing their position of privilege.
I felt anger at those endangering others’ health, and concern for those powerless to challenge the rule violators. I felt stuck. I did not speak up at the salon. I did speak up to my family when they were inconsiderate and hurtful. I had not been stuck, had known clearly what was right and who would be hurt by continuing to uphold traditional rituals. My speaking up with my family had not led to changes I had hoped for. For better or worse, I felt good about speaking up to my family.
I may not have spoken up at the salon due to some intuitive limbic system response, because speaking up did not feel safe at that moment. Or I was unwilling to trust myself to know exactly what I was thinking and feeling at a moment when I might have made a difference. Or, perhaps I have deeply felt reactions to race, color, privilege, class and my status as an immigrant that I am sometimes unaware of. In the situation with my family, I knew I had some privilege as the elder sister to my brother. The two of us could have joined forces and together countered some of the prejudices. However, he was hobbled by his health difficulties, and chose not to resist her decisions. My speaking up in that situation did not lead to any change. I spoke up for my father who was no longer there, and even that was not enough to have my relatives think about what was right. These arguments drained and saddened me, and I began to feel an outsider in my family.
As I think about it more, I know I did not speak up in the salon out of a mixture of emotions including exhaustion, hope for a quiet space of relaxation, conflicted feelings about being outspoken and failing to make a difference, resentment about privileged people, hesitation about a possible confrontation, and recognition of the financially difficult position of the women who worked at the salon. In some ways, I felt like a wounded warrior who had nothing left to give. It felt less my fight compared to the pressure I felt to speak up in my family.
Perhaps this part is all rationalization. I understand that the Asian women who run the salon are in a difficult situation. So many people have lost months of income. The technicians are balancing making an income, staying safe, keeping their customers happy, and not alienating their less cooperative but long-term clients. They are trying. They are working. They are dealing with the privileged on whom they are dependent for business. Perhaps my mother was similarly dependent on her relatives and on her own spiritual beliefs for her continued sense of well-being.
I could not speak up and risk the women in the salon getting financially “punished” for my outspokenness. I am aware of my privilege, know more clearly why privileged people don’t always speak up for those who are put-down, and more aware of the dissonance and anxiety created in me by the idea of a potentially unpleasant confrontation. I feel at peace with my decision or impulse to not speak up that day. I knew at some level inside me that my silence would result in the best outcome. I had gone to the salon for a little touch of luxury, and to find a space to be quiet. But that day there was no respite from noticing, reacting, and thinking about responding. It didn’t feel too different from my trying to speak up with my family in India, my failing to convince them to look at their privilege and take up a position against the bigoted old rituals that were so entrenched –their need for old comfort won out. There was, and is, no respite for me from considering the act of speaking up, and perhaps my need for comfort and safety won out that day. Those who have voices can call out for others who don’t. Whether they do or do not, and why or why not is a more nuanced decision.
