Childhood STOLEN by American Girl Store

I recently went on a trip to Colorado with Abby. We spent a week dog sledding, skiing, and gazing at the magestic beauty of the Rocky Mountains. We did not decide to spend our last day outside in the refreshing barely-oxygenated mile-high air, and instead decided to spend it in the retail air of Park Meadows Mall where an American Girl Store had just opened!

Like all little girls, I begged my mom for an American Girl doll on a regular basis. My mom was a big fan of her daughters reading, so she happily purchased the six books of every series for me and my younger sister Sami. My favorite books were about Samantha Parkington. I read Meet Samantha, Samantha Learns a Lesson, Samantha's Surprise, Happy Birthday Samantha!, Samantha Saves the Day, and Changes for Samantha hundreds of times each. At the back of each book was a small, harmless-looking postcard that you could send away for the American Girls Catalogue which sold dolls based on the series. My mom didn't appreciate the series as much after the arrival of the catalogue.

Sami and I would spend days lovingly turning the pages of the catalogue (Sami focused on Molly because they both wore glasses). They were the greatest dolls you could EVER own. Not only could you have the doll, but you could get everything the doll had in all of the books! You could get Samantha's pretty pink dress from Happy Birthday Samantha! along with a tiny ice cream maker and a tiny wicker set of table and chairs. You could even get a matching outfit for yourself! However, the dolls cost around $85 just for a starter kit - doll, book, and maybe a brush. My mom dismissed our whiney begging, stating that she would get us the dolls when they went on sale. Sami and I knew, they would never go on sale. My mom eventually got us similar looking porcelain dolls at a lower cost that partially filled the massive void in our American Girl hearts.

When we saw the American Girl store had opened just a week earlier in Colorado, we decided to go. I have to admit that even at age 25, I was excited to see a Samantha doll in person - a little sad, I know. We arrived at the magical store, where glass covered perfect displays of all the dolls just like in the catalogues. There were a few new dolls that I didn't recognize - Josefina? Ruthie? Rebecca? LANIE? Who the f*** cares? Where is Samantha?!? I rushed through all the displays, but she couldn't be found.

Abby, Sami, and I aggressively elbowed children out of the way to talk to one of the salesclerks.

"Excuse me miss, where are the Samantha dolls?" Sami asked as we all backed the clerk into a corner.

"I'm sorry, Samantha has been retired. It actually happened a few years ago," she politely replied.

"WHAT!?!" we responded in unison.

She's only 10 years old, I thought, how could she retire?

"I was going to pass one on to my daughter!" I said loudly to the sales clerk, realizing in the same moment that - 1) I don't have a daughter and 2) to pass something on to a daughter you have to own it yourself first. I could have cried (don't worry, I held it together - a future pediatrician should not openly sob in a doll store), and we left the store sad and dejected.

Samantha now costs around $300 on e-bay - a little too much for me to handle. I'm guessing she's going to come out of "retirement" at some point to give a little sales boost to the doll makers - much like the Disney vault which gives you a periodic one month window to get a limited edition Beauty and the Beast before it goes back in the vault. I may get my sister a Molly doll for her graduation so she never has to face the horrible realization that she can't pass it on to her imaginary daughter.

--By Farrah, who is house hunting and considered applying for those HGTV shows about "My first home" but didn't want to look too Liz Lemon-y looking for a house to live in by herself

Blast from the Past: Journal Entries

Last week, Farrah invited me to her house. She lured me to Perrysburg with the promise of home cooked fish and a tantalizing glimpse into her diary from the 12th grade. My interest was piqued - what was Farrah like at age 18? I was almost positive that although her comedic timing wasn't as matured and developed in the twelfth grade, it was well on its way. After reading an entry from 9/12/01, I realized I couldn't be more wrong. Senior year Farrah was not the person I know now - she was so incredibly earnest, very angsty, and tragically very, very Republican. A perpetual fear of terrorism, straight from George W.'s fear-mongering speeches, was a continual theme from said entry.

This prompted me to tell my parents to bring my diary from its hiding place in my room so that I could reflect on what kind of dork I was. Here is an entry from 5/22/97:

In science, Hardy [my 7th grade science teacher who was the Heidi to my LC, the Goliath to my David] goes "any gum 2day." I said "no." She told the whole class I got a demerit. I want 3, then I can get demerit SH [study hall]. He [?] gave me tips on how to get a demerit. Then we were taking notes and my light arrow was pointing the wrong way b/c I had no room. She was checking my notes and couldn't find anything wrong. So she goes, "Why is the arrow pointing the wrong way" "B/c I didn't have room." She tore out the page and goes "Now u do." I hate her.

In English - British tea party. During break, I was asking Lauren something near my locker and Nathan walks past a & hits me on the butt (this time no long object). I was like "U perv." He blamed it on Brice. More LATER! I asked Mrs. Horlacher 4 a demerit. She said no. Then I started chewing my gum really loud & she says, "You're chewing gum, automatic demerit." I was all excited and I thanked her. After I left, she said, "What's her problem." Mrs. Gibson never gave me a demerit. I asked 3 times. In Pre-Algebra, Nathan told me to get another demerit, just in case.

In history, I found out who Betsy liked - Nathan W!!! She said in her note, "he's so foxy." So she's over NF. In art, me and Jenna drew our houses and William told all the guys about how I live near him. Then I was like, "One time I said hi to u & u ignored me." Then Ryan and Nathan W said, "If I lived in your neighborhood, I'd ignore u 2." Whatever! Guess what I found out, Mrs. Morrison didn't give Betsey a demerit 4 chewing gum. I hate her! In PE, Saira & Nathan F. broke up. Now they're going out again.

And here endeth a typical journal entry from my seventh grade year. To glimpse into my twisted seventh grade mind is truly enlightening and frightening. I barely recognize myself - a boy crazy Valley girl whose greatest obsession was a guy who barely knew she existed. Hardly the pretentious, liberal hipster who references 30 Rock and I am Charlotte Simmons regularly that I am now. Most importantly, after reading this blast from the past, I realize how important it is to keep a journal. If we can't look back at our angst-ridden teen years and laugh, at least we can feel infinitely superior about how much we have changed. Or how much we have stayed exactly the same.

--By Mariam, who is an MS4 and thereby, INVINCIBLE.

I promise we didn't couples match

Looks like both Mariam and Farrah will be residents at Wake Forest University. Good news, the blog doesn't die here!

Blog Submissions: Awkward Interview Moments Series

Welcome to a new series that will start after Match Day. Some of us have been through an exhausting, grueling interview season of fake smiling, wearing uncomfortable polyester-blend suits, and asking nonessential questions about programs that are all essentially the same. During these 3 months, most of us have probably encountered an awkward moment with an interviewer - whether it be on our parts or the assistant professor of [insert medical specialty] or current resident. And we want to hear about it! We will compose a blog about the most awkward moments we encountered on the interview trail 2009-2010. All submissions will be anonymous, and don't fret, overly cautious MS4s, this blog will not go up until everyone has matched. Blog readers, come out of the woodwork, and participate - send your most awkward interview moment to mariamq786@yahoo.com.

-- By Mariam, who will scream if anyone ever asks her, "Do you have anymore questions for me?"

Critical Analysis of a Tile: Part IV

The interview season is winding down, and while I have a pile of 15 thank you cards to write, I am taking a break to provide more blogging entertainment. So now back by popular demand, another critical analysis of drawings on tile.

Farrah: The size of these kites couldn't really generate enough lift when compared to the placement of the string and the size of the bows. The message of "be free" doesn't exactly make sense in a hospital setting. What is this child trying to imply? Be free of medical treatment? The parents who avoid vaccination aren't setting anything free other than a new epidemic of mumps. Be free of disease? How is being free of disease related to kites? If you set a kite free, it doesn't have a brain, and it can't feel the importance of its liberation. It might even land in a local river, suffocate a swan, and leave a baby swan behind who thinks it's ugly while it is raised amongst the ducks! Finally, these supposed "kites" look strikingly similar to a spermatozoa with a crude drawing of the mitochondria in the tail. I don't know where these sperm are going to "be free," but I do know it's inappropriate for children.

Mariam: I am wondering what exactly the association between hospitals and kites is, too, Farrah. But, really, who can fathom what kind of crazy shit goes on in a kid's mind? One interpretation is that the kid is stuck in the hospital and weird people keep waking him up to poke him and check on him, and maybe he wants to "be free" of the hospital and walk out AMA*. I highly don't recommend that because then insurance doesn't pay for your visit, and who the hell wants to pay a $30,000 hospital bill out of pocket? Also, I'd like to point out the inaccuracy of the tile as well - first of all, kites are not free - they are tethered by a string and held by a snot-nosed kid (such as the one who painted this tile). In fact, they are totally operator-dependent. If a kid wanted to make an accurate (albeit irrelevant) tile about freedom, he should have painted some birds. Now, birds are totally free.

*= Against medical advice

--By Mariam and Farrah, who spent this past week making jokes about Dr. Spaceman.

How to tell a residency program "I want to go to there"

When I was applying for medical school, I turned to the internet for help. For those frequent readers of this blog, we know how that turned out from Traumarama: Cake does not get you off the waitlist. However, I made it through, and now almost four years later, I am ready to take my next step of training by applying to residency. After the personal statement, the CV, and the interviews, I find my self agonizing over what to put in a simple thank you note. How personal should it be? Hand-written or e-mail? Who do I send it to? The program director? The program coordinator? The chair? My interviewers? I turned to the internet once again for help, and returned to the dreaded Student Doctor Network forums to find what the average gunner was doing these days. I then stumbled upon the following advice designed for the international medical graduate. It's actually pretty standard advice, but it does contain language that although entirely English, still distinctly reads as foreign. I've highlighted my favorite parts.

Writing effective Thank You Letter

You may wish to thank the program coordinator before you leave for the well organized trip. It is a very good idea to remind about yourself with a thank you letter sent to everyone you interviewed with. It is going to be much easier if you write your thank you letter right after the interview while everything is fresh. Touch the subjects you talked about, that will make it more personal and your interest more genuine. Use the forms you completed to refresh your memories. It is also a good idea to ask about a possibility of a "second look" interview.

A sample Thank You Letter

Dear Dr. XYZ:

Thank you for the courtesies extended to me during my interview yesterday. Your program's atmosphere was inviting and warm, despite of unusually cold weather. I appreciate the way you made me feel at ease with informal conversation about the program as well as lifestyle in ZZZZZ. A site of the state capitol has impressed me.

I especially enjoyed learning about research opportunities at the program.

I liked a lot rounds with ward team directed by Dr. YYYYY. Her non-pressing style lets residents think and express their thoughts freely.

I was particularly impressed by the satisfaction of the current residents with the program. I feel like I definitely can fit into the team.

I strongly believe that I would be an excellent trainee. I really think that the program may benefit from my experience. Even though I had an interruption in practicing medicine, my current position helped to bring my skills up to speed. Whatever I could have missed prior to that, I will catch up by hard work.

I hope to successfully match with your program. Since it was my first interview I can definitely say that I rank your program as number one. But seriously, I will give you an update on my ranking in January. I am sure that the program will be at the top of my list.

Sincerely,

AAAA BBBBBB, M.D.

My very favorite part is the joke in the last paragraph. I had to read it several times before I realized it was a joke. Anyway, I finally settled on a nice hand written note on Crane & Company stationary sent to the program director and my interviewers. After the thank you note is still a mystery for me. I think there is some sort of program director calling program director protocol, but I don't know if I'm ready for that step yet.

--By Farrah, who is in Mariam's home town, which is smaller than you can possibly imagine and contains an abandoned gas station converted into a Jesus figurine and fruit stand.

The Poltics of Naming

When a group of 20-something girls congregate together, the discussion always veers towards baby names - what names we have picked out for our hypothetical kids regardless of our marital status. And my contribution to this conversation is invariably, "I will pick a name that is pronounced the same in Urdu and English so my kid won't have a weird name complex."

This is because I suffer from a so-called "name complex" because (Cosmo Confession) my name is actually pronounced Mur-ium, not the Anglicized Westernized version: Mary-am. When I was a teenager, I had no problem introducing myself to white folks as Mary-am. I didn't think twice about the identitarian politics associated with assimilating ones name to ease social interactions with mainstream society. I just wanted white folks to have an easier time with my foreign name, and so I was "Mary-am Qureshi." In fact, my Carlisle friends would tell me, "I love how your mom says your name: Murrrrium! Murrrrium!!" as they rolled their "r's" as if my mother was a sassy, sharp-tongued, South American tango dancer. Back then, I didn't have the cojones to say, "Yo, my mama says it the right way!" Instead, with a subservient smile, I would say, "I guess it's cool."

When I got to college, though, the politics of assimilating ones name became more complex. At Carlisle School, the vast majority was of Southern white people, whose only interaction with Pakistan or its people had been through a copy of National Geographic at the local library (sigh in the pre-9/11 days). At UNC, though, brown folks abounded - there were academics in every department.

When I took a women's study course my junior year of college, I discovered two horrifying facts: 1) my professor was a short, thin Indian lady named Dr. Chatterjee and 2) class participation abounded and this was just the type of subject where I'd be continually raising my hand. The first time anyone wanted to participate, Dr. Chatterjee would say, "Your name, please?" Even though I really wanted to participate in some of the riveting discussions about the gender politcs of the egg and the sperm and how scientific language made menstruation seem so wasteful, I held back for fear of how to say my name. Should I say "Mary-am" to appease my classmates or "Murrium" for the Indian professor? Now, at this point, dear blog reader, I can literally hear the groans from people like Amar or Erik Peterson as they collectively sigh, and say, "JESUS, why is this such an issue for you Mary-am? I mean, seriously, who cares? Can't you make fun of sick children or the homeless some more?" And in my defense, I can only say, yes, this may seem trivial, but it still haunts me to this day, and the egalitarian nature of self-publishing on the Internet allows me to post absolute shit if I want to on this blog.

In the end, I decided to raise my hand and participate in a discussion about women working "pink collar" jobs in the West Indies for Western companies and pronounced my name is "Murrium." I figured that a women's studies professor whose particular interests are in colonization and post-colonial gender studies would notice me selling out to Western hegemony.

However, the problem persisted, especially in medicine, where every rotation I had was filled with some brown person. I got confused literally at the start of every rotation. And so, I came up with some general rules to live by:

1) Say "Mary-am" to patients because usually they are small town white folks who have never seen a Pakistani and would get really confused if I said my name the right way.
2) If there are only white doctors around and white students, pronounce it "Mary-am."
3) If the doctor is Pakistani/Indian and everyone else is white, then pronounce it "Murrium" because the highest authority figure who is grading you matters the most, and you don't want them to think you are an Oreo (white on the inside, brown on the outside).
4) If the team is a mix of Pakistanis/Indians and white people, pronounce your name both ways depending upon whether the person is brown or white. I have to make sure that the other members of the team can't hear me during each introduction though. That leads to confusion within the team and no one ever saying your name because they don't know which way is the right way and are too lazy/embarrassed to ask. This happened to me during my pediatrics rotation in my 3rd year when the team was a mix of Bengalis, white people, Hispanic people, Indians, and Persians.

And so, this is what happens to you when you are a first generation American - I have now realized that straddling both your parents' culture and being an American is not as easy as they make it seem in heartwarming immigrant movies or that documentary they show you when you visit the Statue of Liberty. It involves a lot of complicated, minor and major compromises with your identity continually in flux as you negotiate the Old World and the New.

--By Mariam, who is so sorry she hasn't blogged in so long, but life got in the way.