Desicritics Author: Hilal Nakiboglu Isler

Bebo's Disappearing Act

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 00:03:18 EDT

In a country where half the population suffers from chronic hunger, and about 350 million are considered food-insecure, the number of teenage girls who are starving themselves voluntarily is growing.

Anorexia isn’t a big problem in India. Yet. But some fear that might be changing.

Hollywood movies are more accessible than ever before.

Of course now, there’s the issue of the shrinking Bollywood starlet.

Take Kareena Kapoor for instance. She’s been all over the place lately, grabbing headlines after whittling her waist down to a mere 23 inches (she’s now a size zero).

She did it, she says, in preparation for a bikini scene in her new movie Tashan.

Kareena has always been beautiful, always A-List, but since losing weight (apparently she’s 45kgs—that’s 99lbs) she’s been getting all sorts of attention; lots more, in my opinion, than she ever has before.

The Hindustan Times tells us Kapoor, 27, now charges Rs 3.5 crore per film—up substantially from her pre-weight loss asking price of 2 crore (Ash gets about 4).

It might be too reductionist to say this is the only reason behind the pay raise, but the connection between waistline and bottom line seems clear.

Kareena recently landed a flashy, full spread in Vogue and snagged a Filmfare Award for her performance in Jab We Met earlier this year. Papers in India have been paying close attention to what they’re calling the Kareena-inspired Size Zero Phenomenon.

Some of those papers seem to be part of the problem.

Especially tabloids like SAWF which recently had: ”Will we ever see Aishwarya svelte again?” as a headline.

“A lot of calories have flowed through (Ash’s) system” since she married Abhishek, said the accompanying piece, and “many, it would seem, have found a home there.”

First the country’s preoccupation with fairness, and now this?

I worry that the forecast for India’s young women looks increasingly grim.

The New Immigrants

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 12:55:21 EDT

When Sunil "Sunny" Datt left his native New Delhi for the United States, he didn't quite know what to expect. His brother-in-law had immigrated to Philadelphia a few years earlier, and encouraged Sunny to consider the move as well. Gritty and growing, the city was home to about 20,000 Indian immigrants at the time.

"I came in 1996," Sunny says, "and started working at an Italian pizza place in South Philly. They paid me two dollars an hour. Since I was the cheapest guy there, I was doing everything; mopping, cleaning...you name it. It was difficult, but I just stayed focused, worked hard, and saved every penny I could."

Sunny's beginnings in this country were modest, but his drive to succeed and sincere belief in the "American Dream" made sure there would be more to his story. Despite meager wages and no benefits, Sunny worked from 7A.M. through 11:30P.M. daily.

His prime motivation?

The hope of someday owning and operating his very own food truck. Sunny credits his brother-in-law, a Mexican cuisine instructor at a local culinary school, with introducing him to the idea of a career in fast food. "I liked the thought of being self-employed," he says.

After putting away his earnings for seven months, he bought a mobile lunch truck, and called it Taco Pal. He sold his first meal on Christmas Eve of 1996. Fast forward twelve years later, and business is booming. His wife recently gave birth to their first child--a girl they've named Siya. "I couldn't be happier," Sunny beams.

Mr. Datt's tale is one of hard work and perseverance. It is just one of many like it--stories from the most recent wave of desi immigrants to America. But the experiences and circumstances of Sunny and his peers differ from those who came before him.

While highly-educated professionals continue to emigrate from India, many working class immigrants are--steadily and in considerable numbers--making their way across the Atlantic. Most enter by using family reunification visa quotas. Much fewer arrive with work visas. For the newcomers, the shift to America means having to struggle not only with the typical barriers of the glass ceiling and racism, but also with material and class-based obstacles.

Today, about 43 percent of New York City cab drivers are immigrants from South Asia. In Philadelphia and parts of New Jersey, the numbers are perhaps just as high. Although Indian Americans, specifically, have the highest median household income of any ethnic minority group in this country($63,669, or 1.5 times the national average)this figure is misleading--as about one-fourth of Indian Americans get by on less than $25,000 a year.

This means the gap between the Indian immigrant haves and have-nots is startling and wide. While there is a handful of high-profile, wealthy members of the community, there are many, many more who are struggling to make ends meet--most of them, like Sunny, have arrived within the last decade.

This new or 'third wave' of immigrants is made up primarily not of the doctors, and Ph.D.s that defined the post-1965 group, but by people who will fill blue-collar jobs. Although they might be college graduates, few have the advanced degrees from top schools--such as the esteemed Indian Institute of Technology campuses -necessary to help them secure positions in upper-middle-class America. Instead, they drive the nation's cabs, work as waiters, and help to run the small kiosks of New York City. Many become attendants in gas stations, convenience stores and motels across the country. According to a recent U.S. Census report, 7.4% of Indian Americans currently fall below the poverty line-- more than white nationals.

Parking his food truck on the outskirts of the Ivy League University of Pennsylvania, Sunny Datt serves the children of affluent desi Americans every day. He has become something of an iconic fixture on the corner of 36th and Spruce Streets. Ask any second generation South Asian American Penn student about Sunny, and you will likely hear glowing praise of his big personality and heart. With Mexican/desi fusion creations--like the palak paneer quesadilla--and very affordable prices, Sunny's truck is a huge hit.

"Sometimes the students, they forget to bring their money, or don't have enough," he says. "I tell them, 'it's no problem; you just bring it another time.' When I first came to this country, my English was very bad. Now, because I practice with the students, with customers, it is much better. I no longer do this job just for the money. I do it because these kids really have a place in my heart."

Check In To The Yacoubian Building

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Wed, 2 Apr 2008 14:27:52 EDT

Alaa Al Aswany is the most famous dentist in Cairo. Securing an appointment with him at his clinic—it’s in the Garden City district of town—is a considerable feat, not just because he’s good at what he does (although I’m sure he is), but because he is an international celebrity--especially since his recent novel, the Yacoubian Building, came out. That’s when business really took off. He can barely keep up now. People are curious, interested in meeting the man many suggest might be the nation’s next Naguib Mahfouz.

The Yacoubian building really exists. It’s a downtown high rise, we’re told, an impressive "ten lofty stories" complete with “corridors all of natural marble." Erected in 1943 by a wealthy Armenian businessman of the same name, its beginnings were grand, and the building quickly earned a reputation for housing Cairo’s elite. But that was before the revolution. After, things changed, rather abruptly in fact, and at the Yacoubian, the apartment building’s rooftop tin sheds soon began being usurped by squatters (Cue the class wars).

The building is a character itself in the novel, which chronicles the disparate but equally difficult lives of those who occupy it. I read the book this past weekend, not in one sitting but almost. Its plot is engrossing, its characters scheming, desperate, often theatric. The comparisons to Mafhouz are easy to make—after all, they are writing about the same people, the same country--but the two are quite distinct in their approach.

Aswany is at his best when considering the troubled political terrain of the country, a landscape marred by alarming corruption, greed and hypocrisy. It’s less (less than Mahfouz at least) about the complete development of the characters, and more about what’s going on in their lives, in the background, even. And yet that’s not to say we don’t get to know the tenants of the Yacoubian. Far from it.

Most memorable perhaps is Zaki, an aging, weathered Don Juan with a taste for strong liquor and beautiful women. He lives in the building, has forever, but clearly belongs to a different era, one that we are made to understand has long expired, petering out when Egypt’s minority groups (the Jews, Armenians, Greeks) left post-revolution. What they left behind is indeed bleak: a desolate, troubled cultural and social landscape.

My favorite character has to be the one most objectionable (abhorrent?) to Egyptian clerics. That would be Hatim Rasheed, the half-French, half-Egyptian editor of Le Caire newspaper. Hatim is gay, not openly so of course, society would never allow for it, but settled nonetheless in his identity. Because of Hatim, the Yacoubian Building has been applauded by literary critics and social commentators, for its frank, bold look at a topic considered quite taboo throughout the Middle East: homosexuality.

The book is ultimately a great success, its narrative brimming with sex, corruption, the struggle for power, sex, poverty, religion, and more sex. But if I had to pick a bone with Aswany, it’d be over his portrayal of women. They are all exceedingly difficult to like: calculating, catty.

Yacoubian Building, the film, is also out now.

Bullying Is Beyond Shilpa Shetty

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Tue, 21 Aug 2007 00:32:37 EDT

Before Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty entered Britain's Celebrity Big Brother House in January, she floated up the red carpet leading to the front door, and waved graciously to her fans waiting in the cold outside.

"I think this is a great opportunity," she beamed. "I just want every Indian to be extremely proud that I'm in here."

Cameras followed the star, 32, as she greeted fellow contestants — a group of ten American and English celebrities who had signed on to be a part of the reality show experience. Together the strangers agreed to become captive housemates, cut off completely from the outside world. They would be evicted one by one until the final celebrity left standing would be named the victor.

When the show aired early this year, it already had four full seasons under its belt. But interest in the Big Brother franchise was dying, and ratings were on a downward spiral.

All of that would change with Shetty's arrival.

By now, you have perhaps heard about the racial bullying the actress endured while on the show. How, almost immediately, some of the Big Brother housemates began ganging up on her, calling her "Shipla Poppadom," "the Indian," and even a "dog." How they swore at her, often ridiculing her accent. How one contestant complained Shetty made her "skin crawl," and a group of housemates refused to eat a chicken dish she had made ("You don't know where those hands have been!").

The televised mistreatment went on for weeks. It was endless and very difficult to watch.

Thankfully, the public responded. It was a welcome surprise.

Forty thousand complaints poured into British media watchdog association Ofcam -- more than had ever been filed against a television show before. The contestants' conduct generated over 6,000 newspaper articles and 22,000 angry blog posts. The British and Indian governments got in on things and before long Prime Minister Tony Blair was expressing his disappointment ("We should oppose racism in all its forms").

When it was announced that Shetty had won the game after receiving two-thirds of the public vote, it seemed only right. The actress burst into tears, saying she found the whole experience "incredible and overwhelming."

Without meaning to, Celebrity Big Brother had managed to do something rare and important -- exposing the ugliness of racial bullying and showing us just how difficult it can be to deal with.

But that's about where this reality show's connection to the "real world" came to an end.

According to the American Medical Association each year 3.2 million 6th to 10th graders in this country are affected by acts of bullying. In the UK, two out of every three schoolchildren is a victim. Most are South Asian, Muslim, or Black. They are taunted for being of a certain ethnicity, for speaking with an accent, for wearing a turban or hijab.

But unlike Shetty, they don't have the option of leaving a bullying situation behind.

Most kids who are teased don't do anything about it. They are embarrassed, and will shy away from telling the adults at school what they're going through. Some are hesitant to point fingers (How do you really report someone who does nothing except stare at you? What to do when you are a victim of anonymous crank calls or cyber-harassment?).

Yet speaking up is incredibly important -- whether you are a victim or a
bystander.

Research shows being bullied when you're young can lead to depression and low self-esteem — problems that could follow a person well into adulthood. But despite this, bullying in schools doesn't seem to be receiving the attention it deserves.

Dr. Ken Rigby is author of the book Bullying in Schools and What To Do About It. He insists something can be done to stop bullies, and thinks social skills-training (like anger management and empathy-development) at a young age goes a long way. He also tells us that most bullying actually takes place when
there is a bystander watching on. If that bystander speaks up or intervenes in another way, there is a solid chance (nearly 50%) that the act will stop.

By tuning in -- or even catching clips on YouTube — many Celebrity Big Brother viewers found themselves becoming "virtual bystanders," witnesses to the bullying of Shetty. When they spoke out against it, they proved just how powerful positive bystander behavior can be.

They say sticks and stones will break your bones but names will never hurt you. That's just not true. Words can hurt. A lot. And when you're being picked on, having someone stand up for you makes all the difference in the world.

Just ask Shilpa Shetty.

Open Letter of Apology

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Wed, 10 May 2006 11:19:45 EDT

Dear (Unnamed Blogger in my Cybercircle):

Upon reading your profile earlier today, I noticed that, like me, you too indicate having an interest in "blogging (your) face off."

I am shocked and generally horrified at the thought that maybe, just maybe, I have sub/unconsciously INTERNALIZED your interests as my own and, ok, yes, PLAGIARIZED elements of your personal profile.

Please accept my humble apologies. Know that I am a tremendous fan of (undisclosed site) and read (blog) religiously. It was never my intention to mislead the throngs of dedicated, shivering, and acutely vulnerable fans who flock to Mellow Musing each day--hungry for amusement, sanctuary and thoughtful, original commentary on such topics as Teri Hatcher's psyche and the Easter Bunny's chocolate-covered arse.

As a sidebar and in my defense, I should mention that I suffer under the stress of being painfully brilliant. I have a photographic memory that some neurologists have called "a masterpiece" and others have given "two thumbs way up."

This means that I glance at things but once and ensure they become permanently embedded in the manifold, dense lobes of my brain. Things like all 34 ingredients of my Go Lean Kashi! breakfast cereal and the closing credits of the 90s hit film Look Who's Talking Now! It becomes difficult for me to separate others' ideas from my own. This is my burden to bear. And I struggle to bear it with dignity.

In the end, I'm just a simple Indian (Turkish) girl from New Jersey (Ankara) looking to find my voice in this miserable cacophony (ka-ka-fe-nee: SAT high frequency word that I memorized three years ago and cannot stop using. HELP ME.) that is life.

Please be informed my profile has now been changed to something far less offensive (and less funny, in my opinion). Of note: 'Pudding' is no longer a puppy but a goldfish instead. I understand you are a fan of dogs and want to avoid any misunderstandings about who liked dogs first, more, better, etc.

In closing, as of 4/28/06, you will be the only woman to be publicly acknowledged for her interest in blogging her face off (Trademark, Copyright, 2006).

With Humility and Sincere Respect,

Kaavya (Hilal) Viswanathan

Pucker Up!

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Sun, 12 Mar 2006 01:23:19 EST

It can express love between a mother and child, and be delivered to the cover of a holy book. It can be sloppy, savory, short or sweet. In Saudi Arabia, it's regularly, respectfully placed on the nose and shoulder of the ruling king. It is something screen-sensation Aishwarya Rai will never do on film--Hollywood be damned.

The act of kissing can take on much meaning. Its evolutionary origins have been a source of considerable mystery. Some anthropologists of Inuit cultures, for instance, rub noses and smell one another's cheeks, in lieu of locking lips. Yet humans aren't the only ones engaging in the, somewhat bizarre, ritual of osculation. Dolphins can be seen bumping noses; and dogs routinely slobber onto each other's faces. Even birds clap their beaks together--presumably the avicular version of the human peck.

Some scholars think it more likely kissing derived from the act of mouth-to-mouth feeding that takes place between a mother and her infant. Freud wrote much about the meaning of such mother-child contact. Popular and academic literatures continue to circulate his theories on oral fixations, suckling behaviors--and their deeper psychic meanings.

Kissing is believed to satisfy a hormonal, primal need to test out one's sexual chemistry with a potential partner. The cultural origins of the act can be traced back to1500 B.C. and the Vedic Sanskrit texts of ancient India. Texas A & M University anthropologist and expert on the history of kissing, Dr. Vaughn Bryant, has identified four major texts in Vedic literature that mark the beginnings of human experimentation with the kiss. "There are references to the custom of rubbing and pressing noses together," Bryant says, "this is not kissing as we know it today, but we believe it may have been its earliest beginning."

About 500 to 1,000 years later, lip-kissing is mentioned on the pages of The Mahabharata. Fast forward a few more years, and you'll find about 250 references to kissing sprinkled throughout the Kama Sutra. Bryant suggests that it is from India that the kiss traveled west--catalyzed by Alexander the Great's conquering of Punjab in 326B.C.

So, is all this kissing good for us? According to the results of one scientific study from the 1980s, men who regularly kiss their wives tend to have longer lives and higher earnings than married men who pass on the pucker. But considering the average passionate lip-lock results in the exchange of roughly five million oral bacteria, it's best to always keep the mouthwash close at hand.

Immigrant Dreams - Desis Everywhere Searching For Identity

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Thu, 9 Mar 2006 11:55:18 EST

V. dragged me out to eat last night. I say dragged because it was--no joke--about ten degrees. I just wasn't built for this kind of weather. Getting me to move beyond the boundaries of our living room has been a task since November.

Regardless, we ended up at Gandhi, a modest Indian restaurant in downtown Albany. After an (eastern European?) party-of-two left, it was just V. and me in the dining room. Well, us and the wait-staff.

"What language is that," V. wanted to know. We were *eavesdropping* on the two waiters; as much as you can be considered to be eavesdropping, when you don't understand what is being said. I've been a Hindi student since... forEVER (but am sadly still very, VERY weak in my speaking, reading skills) and so, I tensed up and offered my guess of "Bengali."

"Excuse me, gentlemen, what language is that you're speaking?"

"Oh, sorry, sorry miss."

"No! No need to be sorry. We were just wondering."

Brief pause, followed by: "Bengali. What language are you speaking?"

They gravitated towards us and before we knew it, chairs were pushed back, hands were being shaken, and names exchanged. Ultimately, V. and I walked out of there with more than a container of leftover channa saag. We left having made two new friends. On the car-ride home, we talked about the men, and I couldn't help but feel saddened by their choice of emigration.

I know that Indian immigrants (specifically) in this country have the highest median household income in the nation ($63,669, or 1.5 times the national average). But I also know this figure is misleading--as about one-fourth of Indian Americans gets by on less than $25,000 a year. This means the gap between the Indian immigrant haves and have-nots is startling and wide. While there are some high-profile, wealthy members of the community, there are many, many more who are struggling to make ends meet--most of them, like the men at Gandhi, have arrived within the last decade.

It's cliched to talk about the sacrifices the first generation--in a line of immigrants--must make, so as to carve out a *better life* for those that follow. Still, it is incredibly sad, being so far from everyone you love, being an indentured servant of sorts, being denied the simple pleasures of your motherland and childhood.

At one point last night, when Naseem (one of the waiters) was talking animatedly with V. about the upcoming World Cup, (soccer?) I caught myself staring at him. Here he was, this confident, 20-something guy, full of life, surely full of ambitions--or at least, dreams--stuck in this dimly-lit Indian restaurant with nothing much to look forward to. It just seemed so tragic. I felt my heart sink.

Last year, while teaching at Penn, I dedicated one class-session to the taxi cab drivers of New York City. Filmmaker Vivek Bald has put together a solid documentary about their lives/circumstances (it's called Taxi-Vala). Through it, I learned that nearly half of The City's cab drivers are South Asian. I learned that many are actually college graduates. Most live in cramped, sub-par quarters, as they struggle to eek out a living (bringing home about $40 per shift. Abysmal!).

Perhaps I wouldn't have written about Naseem and others with similar circumstances, had I not woken up to a string of listserv e-mails. In the mails, a collective of desi bloggers tries to decide which group is more *confused*--those American-born, or their immigrant-equivalents. It was very frustrating to see so much energy and thought being put into these conversations. I wish folks would stop being so interested in passing judgment about one another and just recognize that, ultimately, minorities of color in this country--foreign-born or not-- are peas in pretty much the same pod. I wish we would acknowledge, then embrace the similarities that link us all, and use those common experiences/sensibilities to form communities of strength.

Dropping It Like It's Hot

Hilal Nakiboglu Isler — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 00:34:43 EST

"It's not too late to change songs." Shalin Patel quips over a rapid-fire dhol beat pulsing out of two small I-Pod speakers. He watches on as teammates hesitate in executing a difficult dance maneuver. One hour remains before the curtains go up on PhillyFest 2006--just one of many national desi dance competitions that will take place on American college campuses this year. Tonight, we are at the University of Pennsylvania--'Penn'--in the fluorescently-lit dressing room of the homegrown all-male troupe "Dhamaka."

Inside, sequined vests hang from a metal rod and an oversized hoagie, brought in from a greasy, West Philadelphia fast food place, sits limp and half-eaten. Clear plastic bottles of Gatorade line a clunky wooden table. Soon enough, a panel of judges will decide whether "it" is, indeed, in them. Dhamaka, a favorite, seems up to the challenge. They have practiced endlessly, and are poised to place.

As a third-year medical student at Penn, Shalin has a lot on his mind, "boards for one thing," he tells me. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he is tired. It is understandable. Before a competition like this one, Dhamaka averages six-to-eight hours of intense dance practice a day. Often, it is well after 12 A.M. before the men can finally call it a night. There are choreographies to be created, dance-steps to be learned, and music to be artfully (re)mixed and cut.

But for Shalin, in his requisite black Dhamaka team hoodie and track pants, the hours of effort are well worth it. "I actually find this energizing," he says. Tonight, he and the twelve other members of "D-Mak," for short, will be performing alongside nine collegiate teams--some from as far away as San Diego, California.

The competition, in the form of a soft-spoken young woman from Northwestern University, has now come knocking. She asks where her team, coyly named 'Deeva,' can grab a decent bite to eat before the show. Her hair, pulled back in a high ponytail, reveals dramatically-lined eyes, and a delicate neck. "Lee's Hoagies," offers veteran dancer and Penn senior Aniket "Ketu" Shah, "that's where we got our food." Ketu waits until she is out of earshot to mock-yell his cellphone digits. "Of course," he adds, "they have to send the hottest one over here to ask us."

The 'Deeva' disappears into the narrow hallway outside; a hallway that is increasingly becoming a blur of frenzied activity. Payal-adorned feet softly jingle and pad their way across the scratched, cold parquet-floor, while young men struggle to fold into the fabric of their outfits. In the air, music mixes with shrill exclamations of "someone help me with my makeup!" and "who has the safety pins?" To be sure, this night is about dance, but it is also about much more. As Ketu tells me, a straight-up brand of brotherhood is at Dhamaka's core, "but on a larger scale, it's also about preserving our culture--you know?"

Indeed, competitions like PhillyFest are often very effective at highlighting the performative richness of South Asian America. Groups like D-Mak are far less interested in featuring the dance traditions of the "desh" their parents left behind some years ago. Instead, through a smart, purposeful mixing of sartorial styles and fluid moves, they help define, then showcase, what it means to be a hip desi American youth today.

When the show begins, it is a quarter-to-seven; only 15 minutes behind schedule. For an audience used to D.S.T. (Desi Standard Time) this is a surprise, but one they take in stride. We have been guided into sections based upon the team we've come to support. It is when the lights dim, that the mayhem begins.

Youth from Pennsylvania State University have come prepared. Equipped with, what sounds like, a giant cowbell, they start chanting encouragement for their team Jawani, "we aaaare Penn State! Ja-waa-niii!" New York University follows suit with synchronized, almost militant repetitions of "Enn-Whyy-Yoouuu" and, appropriately, "Pandemonium"--the name of their all-male troupe. Dhamaka alumni, who have taken up a long row of seats, are not to be outdone: "Whose house?" they bark at the hyped home crowd, and receive a bellowing, "D-MAK!" in response.

I am sitting on the edges of the Penn-supporters' section. Next to me are Drs. Manoj and Mira Shah. They have made the four-plus hour drive from Albany, New York, to see their son, and Dhamaka president, Manjool compete one last time before his May graduation. As the chants assume a new urgency, they begin to sound like battle-cries to us. Between the whistles, loud claps and ground-shaking stomps, Manoj Shah leans in and grins, "this", he says, "is the fun part."

For the three hours that follow, the audience, incredibly, maintains its impassioned high energy. One team after another entertains as they slide and leap across the Zellerbach Theater stage. Missy Eliot tracks blend seamlessly with the fast beats of "Naach Baliye." The young men of Pandemonium exude machismo in their baggy urban athletic gear; gear they ultimately rip off mid-song to reveal matching dhotis--a symbolic demonstration of how American and desi "identites" needn't be competing at all, but can be layered brilliantly.

There are exercises in limber athleticism and awesome examples of over-the-top showmanship. When UCLA's co-ed team Nashaa takes the stage, we are captivated by the storyline and electric blue sequined outfits--all of which would put Bollywood to shame. The Rutgers University team "SAPA" wheels out an enormous prop. It is large enough to contain members of the troupe--who soon leap out of it like Jessica Simpson from a birthday cake. We are at the intersection of theatrics and thrills, where the fun is infectious and the competition fierce.

The iconic Penn Masala and rising-star Californian comic Harvin Sethi entertain the audience as the judges deliberate. Respect, an ostentatious trophy, and split of $5,000 in prizes await the top three teams. The jitters are palpable as the performers line up on stage one last time. We all burst into fevered, rhythmic chants. The din lifts and swells to fill the high ceilings of the auditorium. One thousand people croak, pound and stamp their way through minutes of an unbelievable, deafening frenzy.

It is when Dhamaka is announced as the third place winner, that the Shahs and I leap to our feet. We are not alone. The home crowd of supporters is raucous and the room explodes. But the top slots still remain. The Rutgers team places second. A bit unexpectedly, the University of California, San Diego underdogs are awarded the reigning title. For the other teams, as they linger awkwardly on stage, blinking into the blinding lights, the disappointment is clear. Yet for them, the consolation remains: there is always next year.

--A version of this article was published in ABCD Lady magazine.