Sikh and ye shall find.

Yesterday morning, I got all fancied up (ie, no flannel, no workboots) and got ready to go to the Indiana state NAFSA conference, which was to be held at IUPUI. IUPUI, pronouced "oo-wee-poo-wee", is Indiana University Purdue University at Indianapolis. NAFSA, pronounced "Jan-et-Jack-son's-bos-oms", is the National Association for Foreign Student Advisors. My office graciously offered to send me so that I could get the inside scoop on my new, beloved profession, network with colleagues/potential Indiana employers, and best of all, skip my goddamn Friday classes.

[As we speak, I am euthanizing my "fun" mylar clown balloon from my birthday. He's been flying really low for the past two days, and this morning I awoke to find him gasping for breath, supine, on floor. Out of compassion for my new friend, I cut a tiny hole in his hat, allowing him to die with dignity. It's a very Amsterdam moment for me.]

We got to Oo-wee-poo-wee and checked in. Brooke, dressed to kill in a lovely mint-green powersuit (97% cotton, 2% poly blend, and 1% "other"--Tibetan nun's hair, methinks), began to immediately network with people she knew from past meetings and interviews she'd had. One of the men she was talking to, a representative DSO from Valparaiso, wore a turban and looked to be South Asian.

A Sikh.

Of course, my pupils dialated and gurbani music filled my head. For some reason, though, I was too shy to introduce myself. Well, I know why. It always seems so Orientalist when I introduce myself to Sikhs, because I immediately have to explain away the shiny-eyed zeal that positively lights me up from the inside. I'm not sure how *I'd* react if someone shook my hand and then launched into a diatribe about how much that person was fascinated by my culture and how they'd done extensive fieldwork/class work with my people. Well, I'll tell you how I'd react: [stab!]. Brooke, as always, had my back, and she explained to her old friend how I was an absolute mutant for Sikh studies. After the opening remarks and continental breakfast (coffee and dry little danishes), I felt someone grasp my arm from behind. I turned around to find the Sikh standing there, grinning. "Brooke tells me that you did Sikh fieldwork. Sat sri akal."

(undergarment soilage)

Holly (yes, his name is Holly) Singh ji and I were inseparable for the rest of the day. It was just like old times, when I'd hang around with my beloved Sikhs at the Milford gurdwara in Boston, Massachusetts, talking about martyrdom, Khalistan and Operation Blue Star. Of course, Holly and I didn't talk about those (heavy) things, as we were at a conference for foreign student advisors, but I did ask him if there was a gurdwara sahib in Indiana. "Oh yes, Domonic. There's one here in Indianapolis." I began to writhe in my seat like a hyperactive Jack Russell pup.

The icing on the Sikh cake was, unbeknowst to me, that the keynote speaker who presented at lunch was to be none other than Sagamore of the Wabash laureate K.P. Singh, beloved citizen of Indiana and pink-turban-wearin' Sikh. I couldn't deal with it. I'd been in the corn for almost two years and had only glimpsed three Sikhs from across the Front Desk, and now I was sitting with a new Sikh friend AND listening to a speech from one of the US's most influential Sikhs. Just when I thought my little, effed-up world would implode from the weight of my happiness, Holly asked me if I wanted to MEET K.P. in person. I wasn't able to put on a poker face before getting up so fast that I created a sonic boom, saying "Boy, would I!"

So, Brooke and I met K.P. Singh, who gave us his business card and shook our hands. I knew for a fact that K.P. was an influential member of the Indianapolis gurdwara, so I took the opportunity to "warn" him that I'd be coming. He was very welcoming, as Sikhs always are, and cordially invited me and whomever I wanted to bring to come to service. "It's in Punjabi, you know", he said, winking, "but we'll feed you afterward." Ah, the langar hall. Indian food like you'd never believe, served while you're seated on the floor... it's fan-effin'-tastic. I also took the opportunity to drop Cynthia Mahmood's name, as she was my mentor and advisor for my undergraduate career, and K.P., as well as most North American Sikhs, had only good to say about her. I didn't mention, however, that I was in one of her books; I'll leave that for another day.

The conference itself was useful and eye-opening for me. I found out that I know way more about immigration and foreign student advising than I'd ever dreamed. I found out that I could, at a smaller school, pretty much jump right into being an FSA with some SEVIS training and other related cross-training (acronyms! muahahaha!). I also realized that the training I've been getting at IU, directly (from the advisor staff and peers) and indirectly (from hundreds of thousands of student questions), has made me pretty well-rounded. I know stuff about most visa types and how things should work for them. I also found out that cheese danishes plug up my works, if you know what I mean.

It's 80 degrees and sunny out; the birds are enticing their mates like the little feathery whores that they are, and flies are beginning to hatch. Far be it from me to spend all day in here entertaining myself; haydi, gidelim. (C'mon, let's go.)

I remain, as ever,

Dom