The women who made us

Two sisters bound by unbreakable similarities

Manasa Mohan Executive Editorial Page Editor @Manasa_Mohan_7

Twirling around in our backyard while an electric blue whale shaped sprinkler softly rains on our heads, my sister and I’s laughter rings out like the chimes of a dozen bells. The memory is etched into my mind like a vivid painting. The verdant, pillowy grass beneath our feet, the sun a golden halo around us and the world a blur of color as we spun faster, lost in the magic of childhood.

As we stumbled onto our muted-green rickety porch swing, our laughter gradually turned to sighs of contentment as our bodies sunk into the soft green pinstripe cushions. The gentle swaying of the swing soothed our energy as the sun shined on us and a cool breeze caressed our faces, carrying with it the scent of blooming roses and lilies planted in the garden. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the gentle creaking of the swing and the warmth of each other’s company.

When I look back on that childhood nostalgia, my mind immediately goes to my green porch swing. No matter how I remember it or what things are different each day that I look back on, one thing is always the same: my partner in crime is always on the cushion to the right of me.

Even though the swing is long gone, the connection between my older sister, Namratha - or Nemo, as we call her, and I never faltered. In our youth, we were just siblings, two people sharing a bloodline but little else. Little did she know, I always wanted to be like her. Thanks to this desire, I unintentionally became exactly like her.

As much as we look like each other, the resemblance is uncanny in other facets of our lives.

It’s become a running joke and quite plausible theory that we were meant to be twins, despite the four-year age gap.

My parents and family friends often call us mirror images of each other. Even if I do not like to admit it at times, they’re not wrong. We look nearly identical. But even more so, we talk the same, laugh at the same jokes, have the same work ethic and habits and arguably have “twin telepathy.”

So as we grew older, something began to shift. We laughed more, fought less and a bond began to form that was beyond a blood relationship, a friendship that was everlasting.

Now, more than 10 years after our green porch swing days, 327 miles and five hours and 21 minutes separate us. But, no matter how far we are from each other, I know that nothing has ever changed between us and nothing ever will. In my eyes, she is the constant in my life. She’s been by my side for as long as I can remember and she is always just a call away. Whatever problem we encounter in life, we face together as a team. We’ve always been a package deal. In our childhood days, it was because I was stubborn and wanted to spend time with my sister. Now it’s because our personalities have become so inseparable that talking to one sister is like talking to the other.

So, even though I am at least one and a half inches taller than she is, certainly have a different face shape and have, in my eyes, completely different features, it does not take much for others and myself to see how similar we both are both inside and out.

March being Women’s History month is a time to celebrate the women in our lives. The Sidekick executive editorial page editor Manasa Mohan expresses her gratitude to her sister, Namratha Mohan. Photo courtesy Manasa Mohan

Simon transforming minds to make people who matter

defeat the rebels in Star Wars.

Sahith Mocharla Staff Writer @SahithMocharla

You know when you’re around 5 or 6 years old? Just tall enough to see over the kitchen counter and the dinner your parents are preparing. The helterskelter shuffle of mail scattered around, your toys making each and every step a minefield for your parents as they work to bring your house to order. You see little moments, the world above you, old enough to observe, but not yet interact, just like looking from a countertop.

The world always seemed a step away yet SunHee Simon, my debate coach, wasn’t a ladder that helped me overcome that gap, but the blueprint I built off of and the person who shaped the way I view the countertop of our society.

so overqualified my second question to her (after “how are you”) was – in completely boorish sophomore-speak – “why are you here?” So shocked was I that someone as accomplished, talented and honestly brilliant as she was going to be my teacher, and continues to this day.

I might have learned critical thinking because I learned how a Universal Basic income influences America’s trade networks, but in doing so Ms. Simon taught me how to observe the bases of volunteering in my neighborhood and how local decision making affects those beyond the region we live in.

perspectives and shifting the lenses we had on the world so much that if we went back we would be colorblind, so rich and vivid did she make our vision.

since sophomore year. Photo courtesy Umang Vinayaka

I first “met” Ms. Simon over the horror show that is a Zoom classroom, our brand new debate coach, top of her class, just out of Stanford,

She challenged me to think deeply and differently about every issue, especially the ones that mattered to me and to consider different perspectives. She encouraged me to expand my voice and engage with people whose experiences were different from my own. We did become better debaters, but it was a byproduct of becoming better people; more well rounded, greater at assimilating

I still wonder sometimes what she saw in us, because whatever she saw didn’t bear fruit for a few years. The inevitable refrain of “we’ll get ‚em next time” was seared into all of our brains, yet eventually what she believed became reality. We became University of Texas at Austin Champions, University of California, Berkeley Champions, and finally Texas Forensic Association (TFA) state champions. Yet, in the end, that isn’t what I will remember. It‘s the bonds and memories she forged for us all, connections stronger than any argument I’ve made and any counter I’ll face.

She taught me not to treasure victories, but to cherish the hysterics we underwent after a round conflating the United States’s continual desperate grab at foreign relations to the empire’s futile attempts to

Tethering the raven braids of culture together

Anushree De Advertising/Circulation Manager

@anushree_night

Black raven strands gleam at the touch of the brush. She threads the fine fibers into three, interlacing the hair with ease. I look in the mirror. She hums with each skim, her eyes closed as if she knows the routine. She probably does.

She catches me in the mirror and smiles. I smile back.

There is not much I remember from my childhood. Memories have eroded to nothing more than momentary glimpses that flash by every now and then.

But, my mom and her daily hair routine? That I remember quite vividly. I don’t know what it is about Bengali cul - ture, but we are absolutely obsessed with our hair. When my paternal grandmother met my mom, the first words out of her mouth were not about my mom’s eyes or her outfit; they were about her hair.

“You have the most beautiful hair I’ve seen.”

I have spent years admiring my mother’s hair. I have spent years adorning my own hair with clips to keep it intact as I have taken the stage to dance to classical Indian songs. I have spent years having my hair braided into pigtails with a rubber band corresponding to my outfits. I have spent years looking at my hair as an accumulation of the women before me, as a sign of my ancestry.

Hair is important to me, but it has a larger significance than my own life. It is a remnant of the unceasing strength of the matriarchy in the family. For a fraction of tradition that continues to be threaded down generations, I am thankful.

My own mother and I do not have the type of relationship where we wrap each other in hugs and yell “I love you!”

Love between my mother and I is more subtle.

Love is the time my mother takes every night to put oil in my hair, preserving my hair and preserving our tradition. Love is the mornings where my mother combs my hair into a braid even though I braid my own hair. Love is the tucking of bangs behind my ear.

I am proud to be a fiber of the braids of tradition.

Black raven strands gleam at the touch of the brush. I thread the fibers into three, interlacing the hair with ease. I tether the braids, my culture, together.

I remember the late-night car rides as we sang (screeched) Bruno Mars and remember the steady hand she always provided as we alternately shattered and shone at our tournaments.

Albert Einstein told us matter is not created or destroyed, merely transformed. My years in debate had been about taking what I had been given in and transforming it for the future. What I was taught and given by Ms. Simon transferred to the upcoming debaters. She didn’t just build a program, she built people. She didn’t just make a winner, she made me.

The Sidekick advertising/ circulation manager Anushree De and their mother Ananya Kundu value the ability of hair to show aspects of their culture. This Women’s History Month, De is thankful to her mother.