While attending NYCC ’08, I was approached by Luis Medina, a filmmaker who was making a documentary about [sic] “People of color in comics”. While I made my views clear on that “classification” (the only part that made it into the final cut is at 02:06 on the video), it was kind of interesting to discuss about the role of race/ethinicty in the kind of stories we tell.
I stand by the views I expressed in the documentary i.e. a writer is not defined as an Indian writer or a latin american writer or a caucasian writer. There are good writers and then there are bad writers.
One of my oldest memories is listening to old songs on a LP disc player my father used to own. Cramped in a two room house way back in the early eighties, I remember listening half-asleep to songs that my father would play at a very gentle volume so as not to wake up the neighbors. Growing up they were my lullabies and I do miss them so much.
The other day on a whim I tried searching for some old Oriya movie songs on YouTube and I came up with this gem
Took me a moment to realize but I do remember this song. For a moment I was five years old again. Half asleep in a small room way back in time, a time when I knew peace, a peace that comes with the innocence of childhood.
Now that I’m going to be a father myself I find myself wondering what would be the sound my daughter would fall asleep to? would it be the clatter of a keyboard that she’d remember growing up or would it be the chime of a cell phone ringtone? Maybe when she is growing up I’ll play her the song, maybe it’ll be worth something to her as well