Dear Hasan Minhaj

You’re a beautiful memoir writer, and Homecoming King is brilliant. It took me on so many journeys  within my own brain and was almost impossible to watch without analyzing my life (my parents, my immigrant experience, my childhood desire to be white, my Camry–although Toyota can eat dicks), all in relation to yours.

I was in love with BJ Novak for a while, but I think you might be my new favorite celeb. In related news, I’ve always thought that Anthony Weiner would be my answer to the question, “Which person, dead or alive, would you want to have dinner with?” But only today–like, nine hours ago–did I change my answer to Jared Kushner’s dad, Charlie.

Are you familiar with the elder Kushner’s story? How he’d swim 180 laps before work, grow a multi-billion-dollar business, evade taxes, and illegally fund Democratic candidates? His (less religious and less business savvy) siblings ratted him out, and he was prosecuted by then-Attorney General Chris Christie (my other celeb crush). But Kushner didn’t take that shit lying down. Instead, Jared’s dad hired a hooker to blow his brother-in-law and had the whole thing videotaped and mailed to his sister and her adult kids. (He denies mailing it to the kids).

Anyway, aside from the sick extremes of the story, I saw a slight resemblance between your love for your father and Jared Kushner’s love for his. (Please forgive the possibly offensive comparison. I’ve been obsessing over the Kushners since this morning and can’t stop thinking about them.) I just meant in the respect and reverence he holds for his dad, and for the genuine aspects of his father’s personality that even I couldn’t help but admire.

My heart broke when your father almost turned around at your wife’s family’s door. Log kya kahenge is the element within the Indian culture that I most despise, and I love your sister for speaking truth to fear. I love, too, the words your father spoke to you from his hospital bed. I love your September 12th monologue. Haunting. Beautiful.

The image of you in a salwar kurta at the airport made me think of the salwar kurtas I would wear to Bharatanatyam lessons on Wednesday nights as a kid. The image of your mom frying pakoras made me crave my mom’s pakoras, and your embarrassment at the smell of them reminded me of how, in high school, I would wrap my hair in a hat whenever the scent of asafoetida overpowered our kitchen. But maybe that’s where are similarities end.

I have a strange identity as an Indian-American, and I’m not quite sure how to articulate it. I’ve only ever had two Indian girlfriends: A beautiful basic bitch from Hoboken who rocked a bowl cut in the mid-90s (you’re right, it was THE style), and my long-haired Bharatanatyam bestie who is now an obstetrician. We were friends as kids; now we’re Facebook friends who never interact. Like me, both are married to white guys.

I went to Homecoming in 10th grade with a handsome Indian classmate, and when he came to pick me up, my parents sat him down at the kitchen table for an interrogation. “I have to ask,” my dad began, his fingers intertwined and pressed tightly against his lips. “Do… you… speed?”

Jay and I laughed all the way to the dance, his pulse still racing , and I’m pretty sure he stayed under 50 miles per hour the whole ride. He has an Indian wife now.

I’ve never kissed someone of my own race. Talk about an exclusive “never have I ever” card. It makes me sad to admit, like I’m a self-loathing, insecure, wannabe white girl, which, to some extent, maybe I am? Or maybe I was. Because people change–just look at Bethany and Raj.

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