Yoni is the Wrong Damn Word: Marginalization and Exoticism

Why, oh, why does it have to be Yoni Ki Baat? Why? I’m South Asian, right? I’m solid South Asian. So why does it make my blood boil that South Asians are doing an adaptation of the Vagina Monologues called Yoni Ki Baat?

Well, I don’t have a damn yoni, for one thing. The first time I read the word yoni, it was in a Nancy Friday book of sexual fantasies and some white chick was describing her power centre being plunged or whatever and calling it a yoni.

I do not call my c*** yoni. I’m Pakistani. We don’t do Sanskrit in Pakistan, not on purpose, anyway (I take no responsibility for accidental Sanskrit). Pakistani vernacular has many words for vagina and none of them is yoni. So running into a performance of Yoni Ki Baat by South Asians in Seattle really just fries my onions all wrong.

However, I can deal. I know that in the US South Asian communities are dominated by Indianness and this is simply a reflection of the sub-continental hegemonic power structures. I don’t like it, but I’m a lazy person and that’s not a fight I’m going to pick on a 6-month quickie in Seattle.

A little bit of investigation, however, brings me the news that, no, in fact, even in Indian contexts, using yoni for vagina is extremely problematic. It’s a Sanskrit word. Sanskrit is the base for north Indian languages, including, most prominently, Hindi. Using it successfully projects, once again, north India as true India and Dravidian south India as other. As incidental. As internal or private. As “ethnic.” As not-really-there.

Well done, feminism. Read More »

Love from Gabriel

I left word with God that I’d borrowed a book
off him when he wasn’t looking
– not one of the big ones, Read More »

These Poems Associate Freely

I broke the mold. I made a mockery
of your elation. I tried my hand
at gravity and watched everything

fly away
and become the moon

and so it was that nothing
stood still again. And life was all
a float.

*

My best friend Charlie came
to visit me yesterday, said there’s no kicking
the ball without me. I looked into
his dull brown eyes and wondered was it
me or was he really that lost, me
holding a ball for him was joy?
I take it away, I’m a holder back,
you have to earn it, with me,
and still it won’t go sailing.

He said he loved me for how I kneel
and look hopingly into his eyes.
I said, “You fall on your ass
every time, Charlie; don’t you mind?” Read More »

Conspiracy Theory

I’ve forgotten the ending.
It’s one of the things they took
in those long days of dull

yellow light – a way to pinch out
the flame and watch the smoke rise
against the window at night. Read More »