minalisms

I experienced a nerd binge today. It was ugly and quite possibly futile. But, in my defense, my fervency is justified when considering that accuracy supports my life: It is the foundation of my career, which gives me my income, which pays for my shelter, my food and my (at times questionable) mental health. So it is my mission to correct the world of its errors — one word at a time. And today, the error was personal.

To Whom it May Concern: 

This suggestion is long overdue, and I hope someone on the Google team values accuracy enough to implement it. 

There is only one way to spell “Gandhi” when referring to the legendary icon of nonviolence, Mohandas K. Gandhi. His name is never spelled “Ghandi” or “Gandi” or “Ghandhi”; those common variations are WRONG. 

I’ve noticed that Google can recognize a misspelled word/name in its search and often offers the correct spelling atop the corresponding results page. For example, searching for “George Wasington” will result in: “Did you mean: George Washington?” 

This verification is an important and informative element of your search engine. It notifies users that a mistake/typo may have occurred on their behalf. And such mistakes inevitably affect search results. 

So it was surprising to see that when I typed “Ghandi” into Google, I was not alerted to the error. Therefore, my suggestion is to generate a “Did you mean: Gandhi?” alert in instances like this. 

Perhaps then we could educate individuals and begin to eradicate this vexing misnomer. 

I encourage Google to take advantage of its worldwide reach to promote accuracy, respect and truth. It can only boost your credibility and reputation. 

Thank you for your time. 

Sincerely, 
Minal Gandhi

How do we forgive someone who hurts us? And when? How could we get past pain that has been snowballing for weeks, months, years … even decades? And how should we cope when it’s too late to tell the other that we want to bury the hatchet with him?

I received news earlier today that my uncle — my mom’s brother — died this afternoon.

I hadn’t spoken to him for a year or so. We were never that close, and that was mainly due to circumstance: He was in India throughout the time I was growing up. 

But my mom also felt as though she lacked a closeness to her own brother. And it bothered her. It bothered her because people and circumstances seemingly wedged themselves between the two siblings years and years ago. As a result, personalities evolved, conflicts arose and feelings were deeply hurt. So the once-cherished relationship between a brother and sister eroded — and neither party was ever ready to make amends. Now he’s gone, and there are so many words between he and my mom that are left unspoken.

So today, and for days to come, my mom has to deal with a broken heart rooted in grief as well as regret. And I have a feeling that the regret will be the hardest to overcome.

My feet told me today that I am an old woman. Actually, considering the suffering they endured, my feet screamed that I am an old woman, a dumb old woman who thinks she can still get away with wearing pointy-toe stiletto pumps to work.

I have a closet full of beautiful, colorful, fun heels. A majority of them are dusty and depressed — I’ve neglected them since moving to St. Louis about two years ago. Each time I opened my closet and saw them neatly lined along the shelves, I thought about being younger, and thinner. At least thin enough to have never felt the anguish of today, as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, attempting to allow some sort of reprieve for my tired toes and soles.

It hardly worked.

I had two thoughts consume me all day: 

I’m going to die.” and,
“Thank god flats are in fashion.” 

I’ve started reading books again. I recently emerged from a span of eight or nine years when I didn’t want, didn’t care to read for pleasure. I have been ashamed of that period; it made me feel stupid, shallow.

But I’m back at it, and it’s gems like the following (from Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat, Pray, Love”) that remind me why I must read:

It is merely this world that is chaotic, bringing changes to us all that nobody could have anticipated. The Augusteum warns me not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to, or what function I may once have intended to serve. Yesterday I might have been a glorious monument to somebody, true enough — but tomorrow I could be a fireworks depository. Even in the Eternal City, says the silent Augusteum, one must always be prepared for riotous and endless waves of transformation.”

Did anybody witness the recent and now-infamous “fist bump” between Barack Obama and his wife, Michelle?

A fist bump or “closed-fisted high-five,” as The New York Times referred to it, is commonly called a “pound” or “dap.” It’s been used for decades as a greeting or a gesture to signify respect. What it’s not is “Hezbollah-style fist-jabbing” the nutty, ignorant, racist fear mongers call it.

Fox News aside, does this mean that neither The Times nor the Washington Post, which called it “fist bump,” had people in their newsrooms who could enlighten fellow editors about today’s lingo? And if that’s the case, shouldn’t readers be worried?

I remember a discussion with a co-worker a while back about fair and accurate representation by media. She said some of the journalism coming out of our newsroom — and others around the country — suffers because of homogeneity among its representatives: Many of us are around the same age, married with children, and live in modest homes in middle-class neighborhoods. She went on to say that we’re not paying attention to wide representation among sources in stories either, thus forgoing variety and complexity for convenience and familiarity.

Knowing this, could an African-American college student from out of state depend on us to report the news in a way in which he could relate? On news that matters to him? How about a single mom on welfare who is working two jobs to pay her rent? Or a lesbian shopkeeper living in a “gay-friendly” part of the city.

Who in the newsroom is serving these vastly different individuals? Because it’s not us. Not yet.

It all makes me sad, really. We journalists couldn’t even call a pound by its true name. Now the inaccuracy has us going out like fist-bumping suckers.

And if we can’t get something so simple right, how much more are we getting wrong?