Bina Bipat

The Introduction to the Conclusion (1/4)

As the semester comes to the end, I begin to reflect on the work I have done throughout this semester. For this course, “First Year Writing: Modes of the Experimental Self/Identity Through Multimodal”, it was split into two ideas that interconnect with one another to help development the information. When I originally registered to take this class, I was reluctant to accept that I was taking a class that would focus on exploring myself. However, despite my initial concerns I can say that I enjoyed this class tremendously. It was an opportunity to walk down memory lane and talk about aspects of me that I might have forgotten or overlooked. Each assignment was something new for every class but they all connected back to each other. They have helped me develop my analysis and expression skills in a way that I never was given the opportunity to do. It has grown my writing skills and helped me express who I am and what makes me, me for everyone else to see. With this in mind, for this final portfolio I selected the Lyrical Essay as the piece to rewrite and revise. This was the first large project I work on in this course and I want to rewrite it to add more details to enhance the meaning. I specifically want to highlight this piece because it is a mixture of mimic poetry with my own emotions. After this piece, I want to discuss some peer response that I have given or got from other students. These responses are a highlight of how I gave and got criticism on different assignments. I felt a deeper connection with the ones I choose for this portfolio as they showed a part of me and my skill on writing in some way. They were also another perspective on what pieces can be interpreted as. In the end, I enjoyed the process of creating these different pieces as they developed my skills overtime. This course was a influence on not only skills but the connection I have on myself and I hope these pieces reflect that.

Who Am I?

I am asked who I am?

What makes me who I am?

My name defines who I am. 

Multiple of them that mean different things. 

Bina Pratima Bipat. 

Yeah, that’s a mouthful.

Comes straight from my culture.

The signs they say. The signs tell it all. 

Taking my birth time and the stars gave me my name. 

Well the B in Bina. 

But for as long as I can remember 

I am asked to pronounce my name.

Again.

I want to say it the correct way.

Maybe for once.

I’m asked what my name is, and I stumble.

I start and then I stop.

Bina.

The meaning of my name they ask.

Knowledge, insight. 

People say it’s very interesting.

They ask if I’m sure it's not B E E N A?

Of course I’m sure.

But now you have me question myself…

Is it truly this way?

Yes, that’s what my mom says.

I wear it proudly.

That is my name.

B I N A.

Now Pratima.

That’s my middle name. 

I barely even use it. 

It means a sacred image. 

My grandmother pick it. 

Said it fit well with Bina. 

Pratima.

P R A T I M A. 

My last name is Bipat. 

Means hardship.

Oh yes, hardship. 

Never heard of this name before. 

This is such a weird name.

But its mine. 

B I P A T. 

I remember my mom saying it was the best name ever. 

I don’t know about that but its definitely something.

Oh my mother. The crazy lady who raised me. 

Only said things for the best. 

Gives me so much advice. 

“Wash the clothes on Saturday and fold them.

Wash the dishes on Tuesday and put them in the cabinet. 

Don’t walk without your keys.

Soak your contacts after you take them off.

When buying a top to make yourself a nice outfit.

Be sure that it does have stains on it.

Soak the chicken overnight before you cook it. 

You mustn’t speak to strangers, not even for a second.”

I know mom. You’ve only said this 1000 times today.

“Don’t eat outside food-we have food home.

This is how to make a fold in the shirt.

This is how to put away the clothes you don’t need but continue to buy.

This is how to open the curtain and let the sun in. 

This is how to do more than just sit on the couch and act all lazy.

This is how you sweep a corner.

This is how you sweep a whole house.

This is how you water the plants

This is how you smile to someone you don’t like at all.

This is how you smile to someone you like.

This is how you smile to someone you don’t know.”

Are you telling me this for me or for you?

“This is how you dress to go out.

This is how you dress with company.

This is how you dress for a party.

This is how you dress for dinner.

This is how you dress in the house

This is how to behave in the presence of company who don’t know you very well.

Be sure to oil your hair, even twice a day.” 

I hate doing it but you still make me.

“Don’t yell when playing card-its not ladylike.

Don’t take things from people-you know its wrong.

Don’t throw food for the birds, because it might attract more than birds. 

This is how to make custard. 

This is how to make chicken curry.

This is how to make pepper pot.”

I don’t want to know how to make this.

“This is how to find a good job. 

This is how to find a bad job.

This is how to enjoy a job. 

This is how to do a job even if you don’t want to.  

This is how to decide live.”

Why are you telling me how to live?

“This is how to act quickly if it turns upside down.

This is how to make ends meet. 

Always check your clothes to make sure it’s pristine.”

Is there ever just nothing to say?

No. 

She says it for a reason.

That reason being me. 

But that doesn’t mean I don’t respond. 

I know she means well but it’s annoying. 

Why can’t I just live how I want?

Can you just stop?

I swear it the same meaning, different words every time.

I have memories that make me sad and happy.

Some that make me smile. 

Some that make me want to cry. 

I remember being so free. 

Free? Is that even a thing?

I remember wanting to grow up immediately. 

I need to stop and just live. 

I remember graduating with my head held high

I remember total frustration over how to fold a shirt. 

I remember “crazy 8’s”, “blackjack”, “trump”, and “war.”

I remember the stories about living back home. 

Back home? That does not even seem like home.

I remember being more than a bit disappointed over not living in a castle.

I remember spinning a chair until I saw two of everything. 

I remember pizza parties. 

I remember dad jokes that weren’t funny at all. 

I remember riddles that were so hard to find a reply.

I remember “monopoly” and “snakes & ladders.”

I remember Disney movies that took up my life. 

I remember, when a I lied, trying to look so innocent.

You know you were not innocent. 

I remember my fantasies of seeing the lights of every city in the night. 

I remember stories about how life would have been different if we didn’t move here. 

I remember rumors that we would sell our home and never return. 

I remember fantasies of what I would say to the family that thinks they could judge me.

Fantasy turned reality.

I remember awkward silent moments. 

I remember having daily ice cream trips. 

I remember drawing outside of the lines like it didn’t matter. 

I remember dressing up for Halloween to collect candy from the neighbors. 

I remember emptying your whole bag to find the tiny lip balm at the bottom. 

I remember sleepily nights watching television. 

I remember how exhausting it was to start the next day. 

It was your choice to stay up all night.

I remember getting up every morning for school at the same time.

I remember birthday parties, being the center of attention.

I hate attention. 

I remember trying not to cry at sad endings.

I can’t help it. I just happens. 

I remember the exact moment, I found out we were going on vacation. 

Trying my hardest to stop smiling. 

I remember being on the plane so excited for us to takeoff. 

I remember daydreaming throughout school. 

Never knowing what topic we were on. 

I remember forgetting I had more than one name.

How do you even forget that?

Not realizing I was being spoken to. 

I remember asking why my name is what it was.

I remember saying goodbye to my friends. 

I remember a dream of living my best life and then waking up to reality. 

I remember starting college. 

One semester down. A million more to go. 

I don’t know but hopefully it works out. 

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong. 

You do. 

I feel like my life isn’t meeting full potential. 

It makes me wonder is it worth living?

It is. 

Don’t let anyone tell you different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From Me:

I chose to respond to Malwina Kolodziejczyk’s literary narrative for Week 14. This was meaningful to me because I was able to get a glimpse into what Malwina personally experienced about language and expression. I included this because I was able to create a in-depth analysis and believe this is one of my better reviews I have done on a peer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From Them:

I received this peer response from Ritali Espada for my mimic of “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid in Week #4. This was a poem that broke down things we hear from someone who is giving us advice and she explained both of our interpretations. I chose to include this in the portfolio because Rita and me had similar experiences to the writer’s words and show why I choose to write the mimic poetry as I did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I received this peer response from Martina De Buglio on my Literacy Narrative. This was a piece that was close to me as it was about food and culture and how that is a representation of my identity. I chose to include this in my portfolio as it is a perspective of how people saw my work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To conclude, I am so thankful I decided to take this class as it changed me for the better. I have improved skills I never thought I would and had fun doing it. It was an incredible journey of finding out who I am and I could not have been happier to take the time to reflect. I want to thank Professor Pooni for all her critics she has done on my work. I never would have imagined myself ever enjoying writing but yet here we are today with a completely different mindset. This portfolio is just some of the many work I wanted to highlight and I hope you were able to get a glimpse into who I am.

Food and literacy. I think of those two words to be two separate ideas. Literacy as a form of communication, through words. Speaking. Reading. Writing. I just want to express my feelings and emotions. Thoughts and ideas. But literacy can be more than just movement of my mouth or words on paper. Literacy can be expressed in the form of food. Food is a form of identity and a form of literacy. I put the words together and define it. 

FOOD LITERACY: A form of communication using food

You know that one family member who makes food more than what it is. The one that makes such delicious and irresistible food that you have to take seconds and third plus leftovers for tomorrow. Well, I have two people like that. My mom and grandmother. We are ready and waiting with a plate to get a taste. Especially classic dishes like chicken curry, pepper pot, or chicken soup. When the two of them are together in the kitchen, it’s an event and masterpiece of chaos but the result is much more than a simple dish.

Food is made of different physical ingredients and spices, but there are something more than physical things mixed in. When I eat their food, it puts me in a coma, where the food speaks to me. 

Food screams "I have EMOTIONS"

Food screams "I have FEELINGS"

Food screams "I have HISTORY"

Food screams "I have CONNECTIONS"

Food screams "I have IDENTITY"

Food screams "I have CULTURE"

Their food is more than just food.

Food is a great part of my identity. I attach my memories and feelings with the different aspects of food; taste, smell, texture, look, and even sound. Growing up in an Indo-Caribbean household, it’s not one or the other. Not Indian alone. Not Caribbean alone. A mixture between the two. My Indian side focuses more on vegetarian dishes and my Caribbean side leads towards dishes that involve meat. I remember going to temple and having religious events, the only kind of food you would find is vegetarian food and I’m not complaining. There are so many dishes like paneer curry, dhal, spinach, etc. that you don’t miss much without the meat.

But growing up in the house I did was different than how my parents grew up. I was born and raised in Jamaica, Queens while both my parents were raised in Guyana then migrated to New York as adults. I had more than just Indian and Caribbean food. There is such a rich diversity in an area like this that I was introduced to dishes and ingredients my parents never had before coming to this country. Pizza. Burgers. Tacos. Noodles. Though I can’t tell you a specific memory that is the first time I tried these different foods, they were always just there. I might not have grown up in my home country where my culture runs deep, but I still have connections. My home has so many restaurants, markets, and shops that I never feel like I am missing out on anything. I know many people, Indo-Caribbean or not, also relate to this idea of wanting to communicate and share through their food. 

Source: Family Karma (Season 3 Episode 4); TikTok

During this time of year, like Thanksgiving and Christmas, we don’t cook most traditional dishes associated with the holidays. We don’t make most American dishes like stuffing, green beans, ham or sweet potatoes. We mix in culture dishes in the dinner to make it special to us. Food is a staple in our family to bring family together and having these kinds of dishes helps bring in our own culture into something that was not a holiday for earlier generations. When I walk downstairs Thanksgiving morning, I hear the sizzling of the pan. See the stream coming from the pots. Taste the flavors melting on my tongue. I hear my mom and grandmother talking to me. They say: 

"It's time for you to learn these recipes"

"When we are gone, you must carry this connection for our future generations"

Chicken Curry; Recipe Linked

Fried Rice; Recipe Linked

Roti; Recipe Linked

They go through the steps of making roti or beans and rice. My grandmother says, “Never measure with a scale but your heart”. When she cooks everything is measured through the touch of her hands. Flour, rice, spices. For her, there is no exact measurement but just the right amount of ingredients mixed together to create something amazing. I hear things like this time and time again. But it never registered in my head till later in life. Food was just food before. Food was just smells and taste. Never thoughts, feelings, emotions, traditions. And these kinds of food will always be around when they’re here. But the reality is they won’t always be here.  

Food is also a way of respect and tradition. Some cultures practice saying a prayer before they eat while some don’t. There are prayers in my culture, but my family specifically doesn’t use them. A tradition that does involve food is when a guest is over at your house, you must offer them something to eat and drink. This is just an overall way to show respect and overall welcome them to our home. I remember every time someone would come over my mom rushes to find them something to eat. Even when they don’t want anything, she insists that they have to eat something. They do this with everyone. Even with cousins who come over every day. It’s a way to show them their love and dedication.  

Sometimes I truly wonder how they do it every day. Working and still coming home and making the time to make us something to eat. I’ve asked my grandmother, “What makes your cooking so good that it expands to more than just food?”. She responds to me “I’ve done it for so long, there’s only one answer, love. It’s one of the truest forms of love. When I cook, I go back to a time when it was my mother and my grandmother in the kitchen. There was no need to fancy appliances, just some pots, pans, and the right ingredients. I learn from them, your mother learned from me, and I hope you learn it too.” When she talks, it’s so hard not to be hypnotized into picturing what she’s saying.  

I’ve read so many blogs like Food as an Expression of Culture by Sanny Yang or My Food, My Culture by Steve Andreadis and watched videos like  “Queens” Season 9, Episode 4 Anthony Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown”. Each one discusses the connections between food and culture and how it has affected them. The written blogs are specifically the personal experiences the writers have with food whether it be within their own culture or being introduced to different cultures. The episode by Anthony Bourdain was an interview of the many cultures that can be found in Queens. Not every single one, but he still was able to highlight and interview people from the ones he had discussed. This episode was especially impactful for me, as I am from Queens, and it is concepts that I’ve experienced and continue to learn.  

I am asked who am I?

What makes me who I am?

Let’s begin with my name. 

Bina Pratima Bipat. 

Yeah, that’s a mouthful but it’s mine.

Some ask how I got this name. 

It goes back in time to my culture.

The signs they say. The signs tell it all. 

Taking my birth time and the stars gave me my name. 

Well part of it. The B in Bina specifically. 

My parents had options, but Bina was best. 

So yeah, it’s Bina. 

But for as long as I can remember 

I am asked to pronounce my name.

Again.

I want to say it the correct way, for once. 

I’m asked what my name is, and I stumble.

I start and then I stop.

Bina.

The meaning of my name they ask.

Knowledge, insight. 

People say it’s very interesting.

That it sounds and I look so Indian. 

I spent my life correcting people.

My name easier to say than most.

They ask if I’m sure it's not B E E N A?

Yes, I’m sure.

But I question myself:

Is it truly this way?

Yes, that’s what my mom says.

No, I won’t allow them to doubt me.

I wear it proudly.

That is my name.

B I N A.

Now Pratima.

That’s my middle name. 

Much longer than my first but less used. 

It means a sacred image. 

My grandmother pick it. 

Said it fit well with Bina. 

So I’m stuck with a name I don’t use.

P R A T I M A. 

My last name is Bipat. 

Means hardship.

Oh yes, hardship. 

Never heard of this name before. 

Sounds quite odd together. 

But its mine. 

B I P A T. 

I can’t see myself as any other name though. 

I remember my mom saying it was the best name ever. 

I don’t know about that but its something. 

Oh my mother. The crazy lady who raised me. 

Only said things for the best. 

Gives me so much advice. 

“Wash the clothes on Saturday and fold them.

Wash the dishes on Tuesday and put them in the cabinet. 

Don’t walk without your keys.

Slowly cook the fish in the hottest oil. 

Soak your contacts after you take them off.

When buying a top to make yourself a nice outfit.

Be sure that it does have stains on it.

Soak the chicken overnight before you cook it. 

Don’t speak during Sunday church.

You mustn’t speak to strangers, not even for a second

Don’t eat outside food-we have food home.

This is how to make a fold in the shirt.

This is how to put away the clothes you don’t need but continue to buy.

This is how you iron your father’s work shirt so it doesn’t have a crease.

This is how you iron your father’s work pants so they don’t have a crease.

This is how to open the curtain and let the sun in. 

This is how to do more than just sit on the couch and act all lazy.

This is how you sweep a corner.

This is how you sweep a whole house.

This is how you water the plants.

This is how you smile to someone you don’t like at all.

This is how you smile to someone you like.

This is how you smile to someone you don’t know.

This is how you dress to go out.

This is how you dress with company.

This is how you dress for a party.

This is how you dress for dinner.

This is how you dress in the house.

This is how to behave in the presence of company who don’t know you very well.

Be sure to oil your hair, even twice a day.” 

I hated doing it but I had to. 

She said it’s important for its health. 

“Don’t yell when playing card-its not ladylike.

Don’t take things from people-you know its wrong.

Don’t throw food for the birds, because it might attract more than birds. 

This is how to make custard. 

This is how to make chicken curry.

This is how to make pepper pot.

This is how to make a good tonic for a cold.

This is how to make a good medicine to get rid a cough before it even becomes a cold.

This is how to buy a fish. 

This is how to put back a fish you don’t like. 

This is how to find a good job. 

This is how to find a bad job.

This is how to enjoy a job. 

This is how to do a job even if you don’t want to.  

This is how to decide live. 

This is how to act quickly if it turns upside down.

This is how to make ends meet. 

Always check your clothes to make sure it’s pristine.”

She always has something to say. 

Sometimes harsh or gentle. 

But always for a reason. 

That reason being me. 

But that doesn’t mean I don’t respond. 

I know she means well but it’s annoying. 

“Why can’t I just live how I want?”

“Can you just stop?”

“I’m tired of hear these expectations.”

I have memories that make me sad and happy.

Some that make me smile. 

Some that make me want to cry. 

I remember being so free. 

I remember wanting to grow up immediately. 

Then realizing I need to stop and just live. 

I remember graduating with my head held high

I remember total frustration over how to fold a shirt. 

I remember jewelry stores with glass displays.

You could try on before you bought them, or didn’t. 

I remember, in thrift stores, gold elephants in different sizes. 

From small to large, with beautiful designs. 

I remember, at the circus, the acrobats would twist their body. 

Then how quickly they recovered. 

I remember “crazy 8’s”, “blackjack”, “trump”, and “war.”

I remember the stories about living back home. 

I remember being more than a bit disappointed over not living in a castle.

I remember spinning a chair until I saw two of everything. 

I remember going ant hunting and keeping a very accurate account of how many found. 

I remember pizza parties. 

I remember dad jokes that weren’t funny at all. 

I remember riddles that were so hard to find a reply.

I remember “monopoly” and “snakes & ladders.”

I remember Disney movies that took up my life. 

I remember, when a I lied, trying to look so innocent.

Even if, I was not so innocent. 

I remember my fantasies of seeing the lights of every city in the night. 

I remember stories about how life would have been different if we didn’t move here. 

I remember rumors that we would sell our home and never return. 

I remember fantasies of what I would say to the family that thinks they could judge me.

I remember awkward silent moments. 

I remember having daily ice cream trips. 

I remember drawing outside of the lines like it didn’t matter. 

I remember dressing up for Halloween to collect candy from the neighbors. 

I remember emptying your whole bag to find the tiny lip balm at the bottom. 

I remember sleepily nights watching television. 

I remember how exhausting it was to start the next day. 

I remember getting up every morning for school at the same time.

One morning not as tired as the rest.

But still sleeping as late as other days. 

I remember birthday parties, being the center of attention.

How hard it was not to run away. 

I remember trying not to cry at sad endings.

I can’t help it. I just happens. 

I remember waking up for church early, just to see my friends.

I remember the exact moment, I found out we were going on vacation. 

Trying my hardest to stop smiling. 

I remember being on the plane so excited for us to takeoff. 

I remember daydreaming throughout school. 

Never knowing what topic we were on. 

I remember not forgetting I had more than one name.

Not realizing I was being spoken to. 

I remember asking why my name is what it was. 

I remember saying goodbye to my friends. 

I remember a dream of living my best life and then waking up to reality. 

I remember starting college. 

Thinking is this going to be my new reality?

I don’t know but hopefully it works out. 

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong. 

I feel like my life isn’t meeting full potential. 

It makes me wonder is it worth living?

I wake up everyday and go through my routine. 

Dress for comfort and comb my hair. 

I stare at the memories on my phone. 

Asking to replicate those memories. 

Hope with willingness. 

With eagerness. 

Hope that who I am will always have a history of happiness.