My Foe, My Friend, Tyler

I attended Carlisle School, established in 1968 to combat the evils of integration and once known as a "dumping ground for rich kids," from third to twelfth grade. At Carlisle, I developed a very special, but unorthodox, friendship with a tall, lanky boy named Tyler C.

Tyler was in all my classes from sixth grade until graduation. Carlisle was a school like all others with its one-note stereotypes, and Tyler was always known as the "smart" kid, destined for Harvard or at least some university that at least masqueraded around as a pseudo-Ivy (read: Duke or UVA). He was the pride of the school since he was white, preppy, and was smart in non-threatening, noble way. His parents were members of the Chatmoss Country Club, where they mingled with Martinsville's Old Money (descended from the finest Confederate heroes the South ever produced) over cocktails.

Tyler and I had a fairly easy relationship in middle school, when I was a mediocre student trying to get by and maximize my Dawson's Creek-watching time. My favorite joke after receiving any grade back in class was this: "What did you get Tyler? A 99.9?" Yucks all around.

When we got to high school, I began to live up to my true South Asian glory. My parents had realized that Pakistanis were losing the race against really, really smart Indians, and their motto over the summer had become: No Pakistani Child Left Behind. In ninth grade (a.k.a. the big leagues), Tyler and I became really competitive. He became the sole reason for my forgoing Friday night parties at Ian's house (had my parents actually permitted me to leave the house) so that I could get a leg up in studying for IB Biology.

Tyler would continually bait me and asked me how much I had studied. I would in turn ask him if he had gotten that 99.9. When I did better than Tyler, I felt redeemed. Even my parents got in on the competition; my mom would ask me what Tyler got on the test even before she asked me my grade. If I did better than him, then it was a true victory. In retrospect, it was as if Tyler and I were yin and yang - without Tyler, it was as if I didn't exist - my grades, my class rank meant nothing if Tyler wasn't struggling, competing right alongside with me.

Now, after a liberal education at UNC, where I have become truly radicalized with regards to imperialism and racism, I see the competitive spirit between me and Tyler as a symbolic one in the nature of David and Goliath or at the very least, the Karate Kid verses that guy he fights at the end of the movie.

Tyler was the privileged white kid from the right side of the tracks, the true champion, who everyone was rooting for - he stood for everything the Normative, the Establishment, the Old Guard (in one hearkens back to the Russian Revolution). On the other hand, I was ethnic, not a member of the country club, and was not a God fearin' Presbyterian, the religion of choice of the Southern upper class. I was a racial and social interloper, threatening to overthrow the Old Order with my fiercely competitive (yet American) spirit and my wiliness; I was, in short, the underdog. I wasn't about to duel Tyler in the Southern, gentile fashion. I was going to use my parents' ruthless immigrant work ethic (imported from the Old Country) to take down the oppressive Establishment that promoted white hegemony as the colored folk labored quietly in the fields.

In hindsight, I look back on my time at Carlisle School with fondness. While struggling and competing with Tyler really did a number on my acid reflux, I really miss having a worthy foe to contend with, and when I went to college, it was as if some part of me was missing. Medical school would be way more awesome if there was Tyler C. to make a test grade victory all the more sweeter.

--By Mariam, who really hopes Tyler C. doesn't read this. That would be....awkward.

A Bigger, Badder Elvis?

Last year, most kids at the HSC knew of Elvis. He was the go-to guy during anatomy. Had a question about the sural nerve? Elvis was your guy. Wanted a tour through the complexities of the male perineum? Elvis, in all his foreign glory, would lead you through the dark and scary crevices of the nether regions. MS1 Elvis also loved calling his friends, "douchebag" and being generally unsympathetic towards people who complained a lot. Elvis was, in short, a Eurotrash version of Simon Cowell (to borrow what the Slayer once said).

This year, Elvis has changed; he still goes to the library a lot, brings his cute little blue lunchbox filled with foreign food, and takes notes aggressively during class. But now, Elvis, the beta version, loves to party with his friends Ashot and B.Bo. He has been to many, many parties this year, and legen-wait for it-dary stories follow him wherever he goes. The day after a party, I always hear some ass tool say things like, "Wow, Elvis, how about that nurse?" Elvis is such a chillaxed individual that he just shrugs and smiles, which I find commendable because I hate douchebags who feel the need to regale their I-was-so-drunk-that-I-threw-up-on-my-mom-and-little-sister stories in minute detail.

This past Monday, apparently Elvis had another legendary night; so much so, that he actually showed up to class at 9:30 (gasp!). Elvis, a chronic class attender, was late. Of course, everyone in the backrow felt the need to gossip about it (and in my case blog about it) since it was such a noteworthy event in our sad, little lives (medical school is truly a soul deadening experience).

The fact that stories about Elvis getting to school late was one of the headlines the minute I got to school just made me have a tragic realization; while the backrow ballers may think of ourselves as American, our forefathers having the foresight to emigrate to the land of opportunity, we are all, at heart, overweight women with a litter of children in the villages in the Home Country gossiping about every, single dumb thing that happens in the day:
"Did you know Ali made eyes at Kareena yesterday?"
"Allah have mercy! Girls and boys fraternizing. In my day, I had not even seen Javaid until the day of our nikkah! The way these young people carry about."

Except in the backrow our conversations go like this:
"OMG, Elvis got really drunk. And why is Mariam sitting there? And why is Shlee sitting there? And why did Elvis sit in Ashot's seat? Elvis must be mad at Farrah, that's why." And so, these are the days of our lives, filled with inane, pointless gossip, and yet we persevere. So I leave you, dear blog reader, merely with a picture of Elvis and the rest of his foreign entourage (excluding Slayer, who has gracefully bowed out in honor of the holy month):

--By Mariam, who is enjoying the PBS documentary on World War II.

When Wii Imitates Liife

Whenever there is a national rush for the next "it" toy, I cannot live without having one of my very own. I will tackle a toddler in the toy aisle to get my very own Tickle-me Elmo, or Ferby. This is why I obviously have a Nintendo Wii. I have forced the world of video games on those around me. Even Abby, who previously despised video games, is willing to play a "Best of 3" in wii tennis before class, after class, and on weekends when we should be studying. I crafted our mii characters out of the features provided, and in case you haven't met all of us, they aren't so bad. Sarah is tall and white, and is often addressed as "Smeuss!" Abby has an inclination to wear giant sunglasses, and days-of-the-week mustaches when intoxicated. And, I'm emo with a look that tells strangers not to approach me. I didn't really feel the need to make Mariam's wii character as she abandoned me to become a college editorialist, where she found fame and superfluous comments that went straight to her head. She left me sobbing over the tattered remains of a once epic blogging relationship. Mariam has yet to come over and play wii because of her busy schedule with her Ramadan friends at the library. Eventually, I caved and created her mii out of boredom. Adorable, small, and foreign, Mariam's mii fell into the mii plaza and curiously began acting exactly as Mariam would in real life.

First, she stood awkwardly in the corner, and the other mii characters carefully avoided going near her. She would approach somebody, only to have them scurry away.

Then, Mariam finally started talking to my mom, the closest foreign person she could find. In real life, she aggressively collects foreigners to see where they are from and to explore potential life-long friendships. It was just like in class when she found a random, lost, Persian lady, and introduced me to this person she had known for less than a minute. Abby and I spent about 15 minutes laughing at the tiny Mariam's actions. She even put Ashot's character to sleep once! And that, friends, is how wii imitates liife.

--By Farrah, who thinks there would be a direct correlation in a graph that plots narcissism vs. blog comments, and that's why Mariam is so hard to hang out with these days

(jk! we're still bff! It's not your fault you're hot and others are not. xoxo!)

Now playing: Travis - Selfish Jean
via FoxyTunes

Jealous of Farrah's Glory

Farrah's last post was so gloriously received by the masses with a two thumbs up from the Siskel and Ebert of the backrow ("Best blog ever!" raved one) with its 11 comments that I invariably felt jealous. A striking quality about me is that I hate being overshadowed, especially in terms of funniness. I usually resent people who have a more overwhelming personality than mine (Bushra and other fat, nameless friend, if you're reading this, which I doubt you are because you are T.C., you know who I'm talking about).

When Farrah and I are together, we make magical improv comedy together (we're destined for the Groundlings), or we might just scare people with our racist comments about "foreign people." Nevertheless because time is of the essence considering our BIG MEDICAL SCHOOL TEST on Monday, I will do a blog on my favorite comedy moments on the big and small screens.

1) In Superbad, the homoerotic exchange between the two main characters:
"I love you."
"I love you. Why can't we say that everyday?"
"I just want to get up on the rooftop and scream, I love my best friend Evan...Pooh."
So cute! I wish I was a guy and could do that to my best guy friend. If I did that to a girl, it wouldn't be that funny, since I make random noises quite often, and if I did that to a guy, he might think I like him, and that would be awkward.



2) On Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, Cindy asks stoner guy, "Have you seen a Korean guy?"
"Every time I open my eyes."

3) On Extras, EVERYTHING:




Ricky Gervais is awesome.

Now, dear blog readers, you have some insight into Things I Like. Next time, I'm around, and you want to be my friend (an inevitability, obviously, since I am awesome), just bring up one of the above. I will be really enthusiastic (don't be scared, I'm Southern after all!), and Louis, I think this will be the start of a beautiful friendship.

xoxo y'all

--By Mariam, who after an Exodus and much urging from friends has returned to the library.

The 3-hole punch is the water cooler of medical school

This semester, we were plagued by the new paperless format of immunity and infection. We were doomed to a life of waiting in the computer lab behind the other 150 members of our class printing out notes. Now, because of the unrelenting force of nature that is a medical student, we forced the administration to provide us with notes. We took this issue straight to the dean, and we would have gone to the governor if necessary. Never mind that the paperless format was saving trees and that we're in a new age of technology, I need to highlight my paper notes in many different colors aggressively during class! (on a serious note, I wouldn't mind the paperless format, if my computer were up to the task of daily transport to class. I don't mind saving trees and evolving, but sadly my computer is as loud as a jet engine with a mere 15 minute battery life. boo.)

One good thing did come out of the fiasco of paperless format. All the notes printed out in the computer lab were not 3-hole punched, and thus, the medical school equivalent of the office water cooler was born. On our breaks, we crowd around the 3-hole punch in the back of the classroom. We mingle with the people that sit next to it. They might give you a riddle, or ask for a password to use it, and then laugh and say in office-like lingo, "I'm just joshin' you man, go right ahead. But don't forget the password next time, haha!"
We can discuss the weekly case studies with the more professional student telling the slackers, "Yeah, um, about this Friday and Saturday night, I'm going to need you to go over the immunology cases with the group. Right... and actually, it looks like you'll have to go ahead and come into the library on Sunday too to get those microbiology cases done."
We can also discuss the crazy things that happen on The Hills last week, like when Heidi totally stole the nameless chick's promotion. (by discuss here, I mean I can bring it up, but others will give me blank stares because some people actually study every night instead of watching reality tv... weird!)

Since some members of our class have taken to wearing professional office attire to school on a daily basis and since we all have name tags, it just perpetuates this scene in my head. Now that our notes are provided for us already 3-hole punched, I hope we don't lose the magic of our new socializing location. When I start to think more about the metaphor of the water cooler, I can't help but relate more and more of our class room to the office scene. First year was like high school, but second year is clearly more like the office. Just think of when it's somebody's birthday. In an office, you might have a mini-party in that person's cube... well, only if they are well liked. In medical school, you have a mini-party in that person's row, but again only if they are well liked. Others have to care about you enough to break away from their studies and make baked goods. I'm wondering who in our class misses out on the cake every time. Next time there's a birthday, I'm going to find the guy with a red stapler and hand him a piece of cake.

--By Farrah, who's trying out foxy tunes so you can see what she's listening to while writing blogs, and see how her taste in music makes her endlessly hip and pretentious
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Now playing: Spoon - The Underdog
via FoxyTunes

Now you don't have to buy the virology textbook

Now you don't have to buy the virology textbook because I am posting all the important parts. By the way, the book was written by Brits. On page 32, in section 4.2 Invasion Routes:

"Respiratory infections are also very prevalent in the tropics; and because standards of hygiene are poor in many developing countries, these areas bear the brunt of infections acquired via the gastrointestinal tract. This mode of infection is known as the faecal-oral route, which sounds revolting and is, as it means that viruses shed in faeces have got into someone else's mouth."

This is why I usually buy the Americanized version of British novels. Only the British would explain something so obvious. When British people point thing out, often they are obvious, but it takes a long time for the point to come out. Because oftentimes, when British people are explaining things, obvious things, they are slightly long-winded, and they may repeat the same point several times. Because you see, the point is, that sometimes the explanations are drawn out, not because you haven't already gotten the point, but because there is a subconscious need to point out the obvious. And it is not with malice, or with ill-intent that they repeat things, they are just British so they feel the need to repeat things. You know, just in case you didn't get the point.

--By Farrah, who still finds British people endearing and entertaining - just look at Michael Caine in the Austin Powers movie - old people are so adorable sometimes!

I Hate Christopher Hitchens

I feel compelled to state the above. In the grand scheme of things, I would consider myself a secularist and on the leftist part of the political spectrum. Given my socialist leanings, I should probably praising Christopher Hitchens for taking on the haven for the conservative right - religion.

Paradoxically, though, I am deeply invested in my religion, contrary to many opinions (mainly Ashot), and on the eve of Ramadan, I feel the need to just tear Christopher Hitchens and his stupid vendetta against Islam (and religion as an institution as a whole).

In a recent article for Slate, Hitchens writes about Tariq Ramadan, a liberal Muslim activist, and he ends his ridiculous article with the following statement:
"I think that this pitch is probably too crude and crass to work, but it's exactly the crudeness and crassness of Bin Laden that require the emergence of more "credible" middlemen to allay anxiety and offer reassurance. Only six years on, and already the soft mainstreaming of Islamic imperialism is under way."

Although I claim an ignorance on having an intimate knowledge of Ramadan's agenda, I am deeply struck by how Hitchens dare call him a "middleman" for bin Laden. His sensationalist comments make him the secularist, intellectual version of Ann Coulter, another shrill idiot, who should have her right to the First Amendment taken away.

Secondly, the mere suggestion of this so-called "Islamic imperialism" is not only ludicrous but completely an oxymoron. I would not hasten to call Islam in America a subaltern contingency struggling to avoid stereotype and ignorance in a post 9/11 world, where nearly 50% of people polled look at Muslims and their religion with suspicion. In actuality, in a new book I'm reading entitled Indian Summer, the spread of this "Islamic imperialism" (which should be more accurately called the spread of extremist faction of Islam), is a direct product of the way the British Empire hastily vacated the Subcontinent in 1947, leaving the area in utter shambles. So, Hitchens, a British citizen, should examine this "Islamic imperialism" and its historical context before he goes on an ignorant agenda against religion, particularly Islam, and takes on the Almighty in a desperate attempt to have a prominent showing at Barnes and Noble.

--By Mariam, who is really disappointed in Slate, a publication that she has read for years, for having such an avid love affair with Christopher Hitchens.

I'm Too Important for This Blog

Today, a nameless individual who I will call Farah (pronounced Fur-ah, not like the Charlie's Angel Farrah) told me that I no longer cared about the blog. While her comments were brutally harsh, I found them to have a resounding truth. I could spend my time denying these hurtful accusations about the blog, which has been a worthy medium to showcase my own t narcissism and awesomeness, but it would be, to quote Gertrude, "the lady doth protest too much." While the sixteen readers that I get daily (despite my fruitless attempts at advertising this blog) have been faithful and wonderful, I need a larger audience to stroke and nurture my ego so that I can reach new heights in self-aggrandizement (a la Oprah, Paris Hilton).

In reality, I have outgrown this blog, and now I must stretch my literary wings and fly away to a better, badder place. It's only for the best, blog readers. I mean, what would have happened to George Clooney had he stayed on ER? Would he have won the Oscar for Syriana? Would he have an entourage? Would he have allegedly dated that skinny hottie Renee Zellwegger? My nameless friend Fur-ah is just holding me back because this time, next year, I could be dating Cormac McCarthy, or better yet, Tom Wolfe (okay, Tom is seventy-something but the guy invented an entire new genre of nonfiction, which is really hot).

So, to my nameless friend, I say, I'm sorry that it had to end this way (which is a break up worthy of Heidi and LC on The Hills), but it was inevitable. Some people are destined (and even content) to remain bloggers for a blog read only by a minority contingency, but I am like Mariah Carey in Glitter; the small town life ain't enough for me. I want stars, I want Hollywood, and by golly, I don't care who I have to step on on the ladder of success to get to it! So see y'all later, and good night, and good luck.

--By Mariam, who is just kidding; the above is satire. She feels compelled to point out the obvious, but the last time she wrote a satire mocking the 17th century tendency to pass out political pamphlets, people got viscerally offended. So here she is, making this awkward disclaimer.

A Blast from the Past: REMIX!

On the left is a picture of my parents in the 1970s, posing amongst trees like foreign people tend to do in awesome post-disco clothing. On the right, you can see me, future medical student by day and blogger extraordinaire by night, as a newborn baby. Aren't I cute? My older sister and brother sit nearby eager for me to grow up so they can train me to make delicious iced tea, and torment me by putting my favorite fairy tale book in the oven, respectively. Most importantly, I would like you to note the blanket on the couch behind me, and then look at the blanket Mariam is adorably laying on in her blast from the past post. Our bonds of friendship make that much more sense when you consider that we apparently had the EXACT same childhood. We see our entertaining and witty selves in each other, and our extreme narcissism ensures our continued friendship.

--By Farrah, who thinks this post will confirm the notion, among those who don't know her and Mariam, that they are in fact the same person

Oh, that Kayak, It's just something I built last weekend with my bare hands

Last Friday, Abby and I were ready to embark on the wondrous adventure of a three day weekend. As we strut through the parking lot, we noticed a big black SUV with not one but two kayaks strapped to the roof. We noticed the same SUV with the kayaks on Tuesday when we returned to class, and we had to wonder, why would you store your kayaks on the roof of your car during school? First of all, it's a waste of gas because it's adding unnecessary weight to the car - this person obviously hates the environment despite their outdoorsy image. Secondly, you can just tell this person is BEGGING for somebody to walk with him/her out to the parking lot and ask about the kayaks. Then he/she can nonchalantly answer with, "Oh that kayak, it's just something I built last weekend with my bare hands. Then I took it on some rapids, and you know, I almost died, but the kayak was just so well built and I'm so athletic that I made it through. Also, like I'm really in-sync with the environment, and I'm really outdoorsy. I have this really amazing kayaking adventure life when I'm not at school here in boring Toledo." My guess is that it's some first year who was about to take them down at home, but then realized it was a way to form friendships at a new school with people who think his/her kayak is impressive, and like, totally awesome.

We've all been guilty of this desperate cry for attention at some point in our lives. You carry around some object that shows off your hidden talent for painting, or music, or reading Dostoevsky in Russian. Then you wait around for somebody to ask you about that object so you can impress them, but there are some rules. You need some pseudo-plausible justification for the object's presence, and when somebody approaches you, act really humble, like you'd forgotten you were carrying anything at all. For instance, if you brought a 10 foot oil painting to lecture one morning, you'd tell people you were taking it to your grandmother's house after lecture and the paint would get damaged in the heat of your car - you clearly had to bring it to class. Another example, which may or may not be true - if you take your classical guitar to all of your classes because you insisted on accompanying yourself in voice class, you can tell people you had to bring it for a music class later that day. Then all the people in your biochemistry class will know that you are more than just a scientist, you are a renaissance woman with many varied and fascinating interests!

Even the sometimes anti-social slackers in the backrow try to impress people in this fashion. Our very own Mariam used to read Rolling Stone in the library, and then ask people if they knew about the obscure indie music facts she read. Although she may have actually liked the magazine, her main objective was to be seen reading the magazine. Thinking of all these examples, I couldn't help but remember the beginning of first year, when the young gangsta Ashot read existentialist novels during lecture breaks... in Russian. Every break when the masses socialized, desperate to form friendships in the horror of medical school, he would sit with his book waiting for somebody in class to be impressed by his interest in Dostoevsky and knowledge of foreign languages. In the end, it worked out pretty well for Ashot. I asked him about Dostoevsky, and Roman came forward as his Russian speaking comrade. So although I'm making fun of this kayak person, I understand the effort. Despite this understanding, I still won't be friends with you just because you have a kayak. sorry!

--By Farrah, who dyed her hair black to be seen as more of a misanthrope - you might say, "um... wasn't her hair practically black already and naturally black?" - and that would be a perfect example of why she hates people

Indications that I was losing it

Last year, I signed up for a stress study on med students where we were forced to relax during lunch every few weeks. At one of the sessions, shortly after the stress of anatomy was gone, we tried out some lunchtime yoga. The instructor brought in for the session was very soothing and well qualified. We went through a sun salutation set, and then settled down for the ending relaxation. I used to take yoga classes at my undergrad, and I always enjoyed the relaxation at the end. She turned on some relaxation music as we all lied down and closed our eyes. She guided us towards slower breathing, focused us on the sound of our own breath and the quiet within our minds. We were all on the verge of napping all afternoon in the student lounge, when I suddenly heard some singing within the music. "You are beautiful... you are beautiful," the music gently sang. I couldn't help but laugh quietly to myself. I didn't know it was a motivational relaxation session, and I don't take corny motivational speak well. The instructor tapped at a tiny cymbal, and we all awoke from our relaxed slumber. When I left the session with Abby, and was well out of hearing range of the instructor, I asked her, "What was up with those hokey lyrics in that music?" Abby gave me a confused look, and replied, "um... I didn't hear any lyrics, I must have fallen asleep during the session." I thought nothing of it, and we moved on with our lives.

The yoga instructor said we could try out one of her night sessions for free to see if we wanted to continue with yoga. Abby and I went back to the student lounge a few weeks later to try it out. The yoga session went well, and was a bit longer than the one at lunch. When the relaxation began, I heard the same music start up. I practically rolled my eyes waiting for the lyrics to start. As the relaxation continued, the lyrics were absent. I was distracted by the lack of lyrics and unable to clear my mind. When we left, I asked Abby if she thought we listened to the same music at both sessions. She said she thought so, and I reminded her of the lyrics I had previously heard. We both came to the same conclusion right away - I was losing my mind and hearing voices in my head. Now we realize that there may be a few more possibilities, including:

1) my subconscious thought I needed something to laugh about after the stress of anatomy and made up corny lyrics
2) my subconscious is really conceited and just wanted to make sure I knew I was beautiful
3) I am unable to take anything seriously, including my own health and relaxation, and must always find something to laugh about
4) I have incredibly vivid and hilarious dreams
5) Abby is deaf to compliments and couldn't hear You are beautiful at the first session
6) There are two CDs, one with hokey lyrics, and one without - this one seems unlikely

We still sing You are beautiful to each other randomly in class. One time, Abby sang it to me, and I said, "hey, that's funny, what's that from again?" She said, "uh... it's the song you made up in your head when you were going crazy." Oh yeah. Soon we'll fill in some chords and some more lyrics, record the song, and market it to the yoga/motivational circuits.

--By Farrah, who has a special project planned for next post, but needs to find a scanner first

A Blast from the Past: Part II

The following are some pictures from a bygone era. On the left is a picture of my mom and dad circa 1979, as they embark upon the magical world of arranged marriage. Please note the awesome post-disco clothing. Very chic, mom and dad! Here they are, just regular ole' American folks - assimilation at its finest!

On the right, Exhibit B, is me, future medical student by day and blogger extraordinaire by night, as a baby at 3 months old. Aren't I cute? InshaAllah, I will have a baby just as cute as me in the near future if I play my cards right and my four year plan of living happily ever after works out (kidding, um, okay, not really).

--By Mariam, who should leave Ohio more often.