Okay, it only was for the sake of designing a flyer for the upcoming Voices of Resistance [1], but nevertheless, today, July 27, 2010, I bought myself the smallest tube available of Fair and Lovely in Chicago, Illinois.

Pulling up onto Artesia, I see Devon ahead of me. It’s literally been years since I walked the streets. A life in California, India, and Sri Lanka has separated us, but it’s still recognizable–a part of my previous Chicago existence. I find the last spot in Daley’s still-new-piss-me-off-disaster-deal-with-the-devil-parking-meter-on-side-streets-money-making-money-taking parking. I dig up some quarters. Holding enough to peruse the store in my hand, I walk up to the paying machine. “No payment necessary!” it says. “This is how King Daley makes us passive,” I think.  I return the prized quarters to the car coffer and pick up my bag, packed with camera. I am prepared to take photos of the whitening agent on the shelves of Devon.

I exit my car with hoodie on. It’s warm and humid today, so I’m wearing a slim tank I received free for volunteering my services at a beer tent in one of the many neighborhood summer festivals of Chicago. But I rather cover my assets with my grey hoodie as I walk these streets. It’s all part of the performance, a follow up on the phone conversation I had with one of the Patel Brothers supermarket employees earlier, after which my roommate commented on the subtle and surprising South Asian accent in my English. “I don’t need any trouble on this mission,” I think, “nor anymore undesired and uninvited looks.” I’m performing good Indian girl, the one that’s not noticed.

I walk a few blocks, noticing the red paan stains on the sidewalks. People are here, ready to purchase and consume. Each restaurant has customers, at least one table full, smiling and conversing. I’m glad that business continues on these northern streets of Chicago. In spite of the parking, in spite of the heat, in spite of many things that come with life in Daley city, Blagojevich state, BP America.

The marker of the Patel Brothers empire is a new Patel Brothers-named juice stand that coincides with the territory of “Ghandi Marg.” Lime-mint drinks. Mango drinks. And young coconut water. Mmm. But I know these versions don’t come close to the tastes of the homeland, so I resist, instead continuing toward the Patel Brothers supermarket. The mission is ahead of me. As I walk the block, I notice a beautiful, dark complected South Asian woman. I want to ask her if I can take her photo.

It’s a desire aroused after an entire afternoon of searching the web/oracle for South Asian faces to include in my promotional piece for Voices of Resistance. That search was frustrating. I was typing in search terms like “South Asian women.” After each entry, I closed my eyes firmly, nervous about finding nasty, exoticizing porn sites on the top of the list. I must say, there were a few of them. The other non-pornographic images felt like random representations of South Asianness and brownness. I needed to find a way that the images would be mine, a result of my own choices. But I didn’t have the nerve to approach her. “I don’t need to attract attention here,” I think. I walk into the supermarket a few short steps away.

Immediately upon entering the market I see the multiple cosmetic items, shampoos, and herbal oils. No Fair and Lovely there. Instead, the whitening agent is in its own area, directly in front of the checkout counters. You know, it’s the area for last-minute-I need-this items. Typically these product spots cater to the stomach with smaller prepackaged savories and sweets, but not here at the Patel Brothers supermarket. This high-profile spot is where the whitening potions are displayed, several shelves full of whitening soaps, scar creams, and plain old make-your-complexion-lighter concoctions. This is the first time I’m standing face to face with this product: Fair and Lovely. I’ve never looked at its box. I’ve never touched it with my hands. It is cheap. The smallest tube is $1.99. But I just want to take a photo of the carton. I mean, I try to vote with my dollar as much as I can—which means I am boycotting all China-made greeting cards and most made-in-China products if I can afford another import. Life practices create change, I believe. But here I am, directly in front of the cash registers, each armed by a two-person team of cashier and bagger.  I can’t see a way of taking these photos stealthily. “I must purchase the item,” I think. “I must offer my cash toward an industry that finds my skin color not lovely, not fair.” It’s a system that equates darkness with sadness, depression, depravity, and ugliness. I will be spending two dollars toward that system. And I feel horrible about it. But I try to chuckle at the absurdity as I approach the cash register with the dollar bills in my hand.

I don’t look at the box too much, just glancing at the peculiarly tiny yet very familiar dark/sad, light/happy faces of the model below the name. It’s a white box with gradients of light rose pink all over. The sweet font of Fair and Lovely in a dark rose and silver is delicate, light, thin, slender, unimposing, yet at the same time, present in its assertion of goodness. A thick band of pink divides the box horizontally with the word “multivitamin” under which is a graphic of a rose-pink capsule which is split to release nourishing drops of oily-pink goodness. The description of the product is “TOTAL FAIRNESS CREAM.” It is in all caps. Under this declaration is, in small font, an arrow that points me to a “Fairness meter” on the side of the box. A meter in which shades of ugly to fair are displayed. I place my hand next to it. “13″ is too light. But the color of my hand falls between “14″ and “18″; I cannot tell which to be exact. There is a “1″–the ultimate fair. And there is a “26.” The meter informs the consumer that “numbers are only for easy identification of skin color.”

I hand the cashier my two dollars–two dollars and eighteen cents to be exact. I give her my cherished quarter from which she gives me seven cents change. The other lady places the box in a thin black plastic bag. “I don’t need a bag,” I inform her. She chuckles as I take the box out of the bag and think of the absurdity of the cream in my hand. I place it in my reusable tote that’s morphed into my summer handbag. Life is full of contradictions.

On July 6, 2010, the British government launched a judicial inquiry into the collusion of British officials with acts of torture carried out by U.S. officials as part of the so-called “War on Terror.”  In accordance with the International Covenant for Civil and Political Rights, proven victims will receive financial compensation.  This monumental decision was announced one day before the fifth anniversary of the 7/7 Tube bombings, and so somewhat ironically, coincides with heightened security measures and counter-terrorism efforts in the U.K.

Hopefully, the U.K.’s willingness to open this line of inquiry will increase pressure on the U.S. government to investigate this inglorious part of its own history and to reconsider the strategies it currently employs as part of anti-terrorism campaigns. There has been wide-ranging resistance from U.S. officials to exploring claims, prosecuting perpetrators, and compensating victims.

This issue seems particularly relevant here and now because of the recent trial of former Chicago police detective Jon Burge. Burge’s alleged torture of African Americans on the South Side of Chicago has been documented by the Chicago Reader for two decades.  Burge was convicted of perjury and obstruction of justice as related to past abuses, but the statute of limitation has expired for prosecution for the torture itself.
The South Side of Chicago, Guantanamo Bay, secret detention camps in Pakistan, Abu Ghraib:  very different settings, all too similar stories. People detained (often without just cause), abused, and eventually released. Public officials colluding with cover-ups. Racial and religious profiling and persecution.

I don’t know if it was a coincidence that the U.K.’s torture inquiry opened the day before the anniversary of the Tube bombings. It seems to me an acknowledgment that an essential component of assuring the security of any country is a willingness to openly discuss and redress past injustices.

Racial politics at a baseball game? Oh fun! Nothing signals the start to a great evening like the guy sitting next to me and my friend leaning over to say, “Wow, I got back from Baghdad a month ago and haven’t seen anyone who looks like you in a month.” Um, thanks?

Amidst Joel Stein’s very useful analysis of those damn Indians ruining his hometown and Arizona immigration laws targeting anyone who might be an immigrant, I guess it’s at least nice to have someone that changes up the generic “Where are you from?” with something new.  It’s also another reminder that even though I’m supposed to be proud to be an American this weekend, I (still) am not seen as one.

by Aparna & Lakshmi

Here’s the deal Andrea Miller-–we’ve read your “advice” for the non-Indian on how to date the Indian in the Onion Huffington Post.

We have thought about it–-since you’re so good at giving out free advice, we thought you would appreciate some as well.

1. When you describe a diverse and rich culture by reducing it to beauty, Bollywood, and bhangra, you minimize the realities and complexities of our people’s existence in a way that can only be described as racist and, well, ignorant. Don’t get us started on how you have homogenized 1 billion people into a fun-loving accessory for Joe/Jane Smith.
2. Consider it passe that you have to reference the Kama Sutra several times while talking about dating Indian people. I mean, really?
3. Most Indians are innately gracious , social creatures? You know, the British thought so, too, and we all know how that worked out for them.
4. A hubby is not a hobby-–we know that can be confusing sometimes.
5. You clearly do not understand your privilege here. An article that puts out a few ridiculous points to snag us simpleton Indians is both frivolous and damaging. Some of your readers have been commenting on your piece and wondering why we should be upset by what is clearly such a positive portrayal. Here’s the deal-–you don’t get to minimize my existence to some cute yet exotic sound bites. I don’t care if you think this is a compliment.
6. India Does Not Equal Bollywood, and if you believe that, we’re not sure what else you could believe.
7. On the bright side–you talk to cabbies. Sadly, you think they all speak Hindi.
8. You’re clearly embarrassing your own kind–we like the plain and simple STFU advice being doled out here.
9. Okay–some clearly fall into the SRK loving category–we’ll give you this.
10. Racism is racism. AND stupid (even well-intentioned) ignorant opinions can also be racist.