— Nina Mehta

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Little girls in America are taught to dream about their perfect wedding day. The big white dress celebrates purity. Their favorite girlfriends in perfectly matching dresses, with perfectly paired groomsmen, stand in a cul-de-sac around the couple, eerily patterning the false perfection of our suburban childhoods.

I never seriously thought to daydream about my own wedding. Mom and dad have a mental guest list of all the aunties and uncles who invited us to their kid’s weddings and I suppose are waiting for their invitation. A mountain of  paperwork is waiting for us at the consulate so family from India can finally visit Am-ree-kah.

With a tired voice I explained to my girlfriends, Indian brides wore red and weddings are more like the chaos of sound, color, and lights of Indian traffic and less like a cooling stroll through Taj Mahal.

If I do it right, my wedding would probably be hosted in a suburban hotel that has room for a white horse in a parking lot. We could host the dinner at India House, a once grocery store, now Indian ballroom, perfectly tucked in a strip mall with endless parking and curbside drop off for women in saris.

They have the lucrative monopoly on the Indian wedding parties in the Chicagoland Area. Who else can do pure veg samosas and a chocolate fountain on the same bill? All I can hope for is an open bar, so some Indian kids with uni-brows and hairy arms can have their first drink before college.

I started answering the wedding daydream question a little differently when I got to college. “I’m not really sure. It kind of depends on who I marry,” which seemed like a perfectly logical answer if a wedding was about partnership.

My girlfriend’s eyes light up. I can see the idea of bright gems and colorful patterns swirling in their head. “You have to get married so I can come!” This is their only chance to experience a real live Indian wedding that will be soooooooo fun. I have to get married.  I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaave to get married. I have to get married so they can come. Does Crate and Barrel’s wedding registry have a checkbox for down payment of a house?

“I hope it’s small. Or maybe I won’t have one.” which disappointed my friends. My ideal guest list got shorter and shorter as I got better at boundaries with my mom.

But I give her a lot of credit. As I got older, she realize my wedding might not happen in Chicago, where she lives. “We’ll have to get a tour bus so everyone can see San Francisco.”

My temperature shoots to 100 and I think steam must be blowing out of my ears like a Looney Toons character. What everyone? What wedding? What groom? What city? Who’s we? What if his family has their own wedding traditions? And a coach bus? The backpacker in me dies a little.  None of this is a factor.

“Sure,” I respond. It’s finally my mom’s chance to daydream about her daughter’s marriage. The idea of a virginal bride at an Indian wedding is kind of silly. What else would she be?

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I vividly remember the first black man I kissed. We met on a melting hot summer afternoon in Capetown just before New Years. He grew up in a white neighborhood in Botswana and went by the name Sydney. He had an African name but didn’t respond to that other than at somewhere like the DMV. Sydney had soft full pinkish brown lips. They were the same color as mine. I liked his booty and he liked my hips.

He tasted different than other men. Maybe it was just the lager beer. There was nothing else to drink there. Not on a graduate student budget at least. The kiss was short but intense. We were in a bar on the third floor that felt like a bungalow. Capetown was alive at night, the air was thick and hot. Our hands and arms stuck to the red plastic table cloth with floral tropical print. My friend and travel companion had gone to the bathroom so it seemed like there was only one other obvious thing for us to do while we waited.

He sat across from me with a charming and cheeky smile. We both got up and kissed from across from each other. I had to press myself up on the table to reach him. Our teeth met a little because we were smiling. His hand softly pet my kinkless hair.

Sydney and I didn’t kiss again. We never needed to. But the three of us hung out the next few weeks while in town. We talked a lot about skin color and race and hair. We talked the most about hair. The conversation was not overly academic or about politics, culture, or the Apartheid. We just talked about the way things were.

In Capetown, I’m a white girl.

“How can that be Sydney? My skin is exactly the same color as yours,” I said pressing my forearm against his. My skin got so dark after a few days in the sun.

“Darling, Nina. You have straight, shiny hair and oval eyes. Being white is not about the color of your skin.” And even more confusing and later enlightening is to learn in Botswana I was mixed race. Of course I explained time and time again my mom and dad were both born in India and all of our ancestors were from there too. My soft cafe face and lightened cheeks with a bit of pink meant, I looked more like Rhianna and less like Mary J. Blige. Rhianna was on every other Billboard in Bostwana. She was their Beyonce.

I felt like a queen traveling in Africa. My curvy body, soft thighs, carmel skin, loving eyes, and naturally shiny black hair with soft waves was the ideal. I was always moved to the front of the queue, served drinks first, and treated with a little extra grace. It didn’t happen once or twice, it happened everywhere. I was labeled by my place in society, and the names were defined by color. I was white because I wasn’t black.

I was only seriously proposed to for marriage only once while traveling around Africa. I’m still connected to the guy. I met this suitor through Sydney’s childhood best friend who then lived in Jo’burg and now a DJ in Seattle and father of two.

The African admiration I felt wasn’t so much validating as dumbfounding. I had never walked into any bar, restaurant, club, airport, or travel agency, and got treated as a first class citizen other than fine establishments where it’s in the training manual. I wondered if this is what it was like to be skinny, white, and blonde somewhere like New York.

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in progress

It’s Halloween in San Francisco. My loving roommate invites me to a party on the roof of The Convent. It’s a restored church that houses ten or twenty artists and free-thinkers in San Francsico. They host tea ceremonies, cuddle parties, and are definitely the muscular yogi’s effortlessly floating into handstands next to you in class.

We squeeze through the hallways of peeling wallpaper and red colored lights. The chatter hangs over the room like a layer of fog letting you know, yes, this is a party.

Then, a man, in a gold skirt, completely dressed in sexy blue bodypaint has a flute and gold crown. I don’t even know how to feel. My instinct ins supremely offended. I myself am not even religious and certainly not even Hindu. But Hinduism is not an ancient out-of-date mythology. It’s a live and present belief system for hundreds-of-thousands of people today.

I feel mocked and cartoonized. Reminded of the times people asked me… “Do you speak…. Hindu?”

With my rationale mind I think this young man is excited about India, the culture, and colorful stories. He’s inspired by the grace and strength of Vishnu and Halloween seemed like the perfect time to try out a costume.

But we’re at a party. And it’s not the time to pick a fight or get angry and certainly not with such open-minded free thinkers.

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Parents who move to a new country usually start by build a community. It’s supposed to feel like family. It’s a survival tactic.

My parents joined a group of Indian uncles and aunties who rotate hosting regular Saturday night dinner parties at their houses. It’s probably what real American families do too. Right? I eventually came to love the cold plum-colored lipstick smeared on my cheek from forceful loving aunty kisses.

The comfort of these dinner parties was the predictable and reliable schedule of the night. Ladies socialize in the kitchen preparing dinner while the men drink scotch in the living room. The kids, who really aren’t kids anymore, hang in the musty semi-finished basement watching Saturday Night Live reruns while eating spinach and daal on styrofoam compartmentalized plates. We pretend we aren’t secretly going on dates or staying up late listening to Loveline with Adam Carolla and Dr. Drew. We become good Indian kids for the night. It’s part of the package.

The kids, who again, aren’t really kids, try to find something in common other than the fact our moms and dads are from India. This too, is a survival tactic. From boredom, that is. Boredom is a luxury I’m sure my parents would have loved to have. How could I possibly relate to a high-schooler from a completely different school district? Impossible.

Just as Weekend Update with Norm Macdonald is wrapping up, I take the cue from my brother to poke upstairs and see how much longer we’ll be here. If the aunties are still doing dishes, there’s at least another hour to go. I smile politely scanning the kitchen looking for mom until I shoot the can we go home now? rolling-eyes-of-death. I predictably get the look back reminding me we are guests and it’s rude to leave this early. Whoever is chatting me on AOL Instant Messenger has to wait.

So I wander away from plates splashing in the sink and aluminum foil crunching tightly around porcelain dishes of leftover cauliflower. The uncles are playing poker in the next room at the glossy oval-shaped mahogany table under a blindingly bright crystal chandelier.

I hear banter about George Bush and oil prices. My ears perk up. Finally, someone is having a real conversation. I try to keep my mouth shut and just listen for a few sound bytes. Maybe I can make sense of the streaming CNN headlines dad keeps on mute when we’re eating dinner at home.

One of uncles catches my eye and sees I’m looking for a buddy. He lets me hang on the back of his high-back chair and peek at his cards. We grin because I’m pretending to understand his hand so I can be in on the secret. Uncle looks back to me, slightly tips his cards down, and asks about my plans for college. I think we’re on the same team for a short moment.

“Indiana University. The campus is really nice…. we went a few weeks ago…it’s a really great school, a lot of choices there….I’m so excited.” He doesn’t reciprocate the enthusiasm but I can see him doing a calculation in his mind. He glances at the table. Then back at his cards. Then back to me.

“Oh?” he tries to try to ask neutrally. “What will you study?”

“Political Science” I say very proudly. I had big plans to work on human rights issues. Something meaningful and with purpose. “I’ll probably double major in Journalism …they have a good school… and I–.”

I’m ready to go on-and-on because first of all, I’m a teenage girl, and second I might actually get to talk about something interesting for the first time tonight.

“Why not engineering or medicine?” he said cutting me off as if those are the only choices and getting a liberal arts degree might as well be going to community college. Uncle wasn’t calculating his next bet, he was recounting if there were any respectable degrees at Indiana University. Because, if I can’t change schools, at least I can change majors. Uncle deflates my spirit with what he thinks are reasonable and rational question he has the right to ask.

His retort sounds like ‘Why are you throwing away your education? What good is a liberal arts degree? Do you know how hard we are working so you can live a great life in the U.S.? Why are you voluntarily earning less money? Journalism? Politics? Those are not careers for respectable Indians. 

Uncle is simultaneously competing for best-immigrant-award and trying to give my parents a hand by convincing me to switch majors. Uncle’s kid has his choice of Ivy League schools so it’s already obvious who won the bet. It certainly wasn’t me.

“Because I like writing,” I say lowering my eyes knowing the answer won’t translate. His ask was never about my personal interest, passion, desire, or life purpose. What I want doesn’t matter. Not in my career, not in my life. I realize he is preparing me for the many inquisitions Indian girls get after age 23 about getting married. Yes. Girls. We are girls until marriage.

Good girls should study engineering, go to med school, fold perfect corners, and make well-behaved offspring. Don’t get too tan during summer and try not to work more than 20-hours a week. Make the ID card in mom’s wallet that says “Alien” worth it. And for god sakes, Nina, please don’t talk politics. Not at the dining table. And not around men.

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These are very hard times. It’s easy to look away and even easier to get angry. I feel the delicious temptation to start brewing hate against people who don’t want me here. But that, my friend, is the most important resistance. We must resist to retaliate with hate. The disgusting demonstration in Charlottesville feels so far away from California. It may as well be another country.

It is not.

These people are real. This is happening at home. It’s happening right now.

Do not confuse their anger with strength. These people are afraid. Their statues are being taken down. Their values are being challenged. Their country is changing. More people, different people, are here. Their slice of the pie is getting smaller. Well, to them, it looks that way. It’s not. They believe they are protecting themselves, their beliefs, their families, and this country. Their slice of the pie.

I see it with my eyes, ears, and heart. I see it in Silicon Valley. I’m sure the Googler last week thought he was doing the right thing. Tech companies said to create a culture for vulnerability. Say what’s on your mind. We said all ideas are welcome. We said to accept different perspectives and share your wild thoughts. Be brave. Be bold. Move fast. Break things. That’s how we innovate.

That’s how we win.

We didn’t know to include an asterisk that said you must practice human decency and kindness. We forgot to say to use the intellect we hired you for. We forgot to tell you to think about the repercussions of your actions. We mistakenly thought that was implied.

We model behavior from our leaders. We model our parents, teachers, priests, managers, and too, our President. Be careful there. Many people in America are afraid right now. Some are afraid life will change and some are afraid it will stay the same. Show them strength and show them kindness. Show them what it looks like.

There is one thing, that I hope, to you, is self-evident. We are all created equal with certain unalienable rights. Among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We are in a deep conflict. This is happening at home. It’s happening right now. And these, unfortunately, are very hard times.

 

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I love late night wandering through the Castro. On this particular Friday night my happy hour faded into a barbecue, faded into a stroll home through San Francisco’s the sparkling gay district. In this story, I could have been in a taxi or buying a pack of gum, or at the gas station. I’m buying drunk pizza.

Under purple florescent lights, I crouched down to meet the slices at eye level through the smudged glass. I pointed at the melty green onion and sausage pizza calling my name. I held up a peace sign to the scruffy pizza guy with rough dust-colored skin. “Two please. To go.”

He flings the slices into the oven and we move to the register to pay while I wait. He asks me “Where are you from?” while punching numbers into the machine. I usually enjoy these kinds of conversations, I have lived in this Castro for seven years and I’m proud of it.

“Oh, I live in the ‘hood,” I say with a little grin while digging around my wallet for loose change. I realize in that moment between lipstick and an eyebrow threading punch card I’m also out of cash. I won’t have more than 10 cents to tip the guy. Shit.

“No, where are you really from?” he asks.

We trade folded bills and loose change for the sausage and green onion slices now packed up in cardboard box that matches the color of his burnt skin as my buzz deflates. I know this question and it only comes from other foreigners. He’s asking me Why aren’t you white? and Are you the kind of different I am? Did our moms go to school together? Are we long lost family-friend-cousins? In this moment I feel challenged and more American than ever. I belong here. Aren’t we in the Castro? A neighborhood for others.

I know how this kind of conversation ends because I’ve had it hundreds of times in taxis and 711s. To the cashier, this place isn’t my home and isn’t my identity. We could talk about if I have family in the States, where my parents were born, where my grandparents live, when they immigrated, how often I go back to India, and whether or not I speak the language. The longer we talk the more it would feel like a test on how Indian I am. Ultimately with a self-imposed guilt trip for eating sausage pizza. In any other circumstance, these are not the kinds of questions for any other kind of customer. But I’m the other other kind of customer.

“I grew up in Chicago!” I squeaked as I tightened the grip on my leather crossbody bag while clutching the pizza box in the other. I look up and see tan muscular men with well groomed mustaches and tight sport shorts finding togetherness in their otherness. I squeezed past them in this particular pizza spot and fly past two ladies ladies going in for their first kiss on the sidewalk. I jam my debit card into the ATM to take out some cash that’s going straight to my wallet and not in his tip jar.

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This post was originally written in 2010.

Anticipating response from an employer you desire is hard. Every day feels like a year. In the age of Likes and Retweets, we’ve become conditioned to expect instant gratification and feedback.

Almost all design jobs will ask for a portfolio and many require a design project. Seize this opportunity to not only show your design style, but also how to present information, how you write, how you research, your design style and your coding abilities if possible.

Now, take it a step further. Want to stand out from a sea of resumes? Build a 1-page site that speaks directly to the company you’re courting. Show the team you love, that you understand their vision, their values, their voice. Show them you care about those things too. Explain why you’re a good fit. Use it as an opportunity to show things that don’t fit in your portfolio or resume.

P1040425 I included photos of books I was reading and linked to relevant blog posts I had written that would speak to them. I did this for at least 10 companies while searching for jobs and internships over the last few years. From here I would link directly to the most relevant projects I had worked on so they wouldn’t even have to leave the page and visit my portfolio.

When you apply create a unique URL. I would store all my pages in a directory called /loves/. So site for Twilio would be at http://ninamehta.com/loves/twilio. From there I can see how many people saw my work, how long they spent on the page and how many people visited the page.

If you’re so lucky to be invited to come in for an interview, you can also see if anyone from the team looks at your work again before you come in and afterwards. This is also a secret clue to knowing how familiar they might be with who you are or what you’ve worked on.

If your link got zero hits, it’s something you can be mindful of when walking the interviewer through your portfolio. If you know they traversed every crevice of your site, that’s also good knowledge to have in your back pocket.

The goals remain the same. The application is to earn an interview. The interview is to goal a second interview. The second or third interview is to earn a job offer. All-the-while be sure you are interviewing the company yourself and determining if it’s a good place for you to learn and grown.

Save time, make a template. Most employers probably won’t know you are doing this for other companies. Well unless you tell them. Or you blog about it 🙂 I did once tell a team I made sites like theirs for a few companies. When I hopped onto my analytics dashboard, I could see other company URLs they tried. Tricky!

I did not make a custom site when I interviewed with Twilio. So this process doesn’t necessarily work for every company or every team. But sometimes it does work and it did lead me to offers otherwise.

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Ditch your laundry list of topics you want to write about. Ignore all the outlines you started months, nay, years ago. They’ll be useful later. Maybe.

My biggest writing secret is getting down what I have on my mind the moment the idea strikes. Usually it’s in the morning when the internet is quiet and my mind has time to wander in the shower. Don’t worry about an introduction, conclusion, the flow, grammar, any of it yet. Just get your raw message down. Edit later.

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All house dance classes are challenging. I've never been to one that's not. They're also a blast and a wonderful way to party early, sober. There are several studios in Berlin. I hoped to try them all and become a regular somewhere but never found a favorite. And to be honest, considering it's Berlin, I expected the music to be better.

Flying Steps Tuesday with Peeps (above)

This class is about DANCING. The class is influenced by salsa moves, teacher speaks in english french and german mix, hard to get into but is a lot of fun and a great work out. The music is ok, some unwelcomed pop tracks and no freestyle, there is a little dancing across the floor. There is a waitlist, so I highly recommend booking online a few days early.

D!'s Dance school: Monday at 19:00

This one is a bit technical. The music is better for people who like the more techno side of house music. This teacher focuses quite a bit on footwork and some on the soul of the music. The people in the class are not so expressive, but the end of the class ends with freestyle dancing and no choreographed dance. This teacher is clearly a house head and influenced by ballet. This class is taught in German.

MOTION * S Tanz

I heard good things about the classes here but didn't get to try it myself. It's around the corner from Flying Steps.

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Resident Advisor: Dancing in the Dark: Jon Hester & House Dance In Berlin

Meet Jon Hester, the Guy Who Teaches Berlin's Club Rats How to Dance

 

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Sometimes I feel too busy to read too distracted to finish. That’s why I love work book clubs! They help me stay motivated, show me new perspectives, and create a shared point of view to reference in my working relationships.

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