For the first hour of Deah’s party, we drank our Deah Daiquiris, admiring the intimate view of the Statue of Liberty from the outdoor deck. As the sun set and dinner was served, we scattered to find our tables. I was relieved to be seated between Praveen Ramachandaran and Ed Cheng. I guess in any other scenario it might look a little racist that the three Asian boys were put at the same table, but Itay Borenstein, Andrew Spielvogel, and Tamir Jones were seated there too because we all happened to be in band together (I played baritone sax). Waitstaff brought around our previously selected “chicken, beef, or veggie” plates and I ate slowly, watching wealthy seventh-grade metrosexual Jason Gross to see which fork to use for which dish, and whether my water glass was on the left side or the right.
After dinner, everyone returned to dancing, which is when things really took a turn. Deah and her crew of besties had kicked off their shoes. They jumped around in their various-sized polka-dotted (as was the fashion) dresses, energized by the upbeat music. At some point they huddled together for some urgent negotiations and, with mischief in their eyes, strode confidently to the DJ booth. A song was requested. Moments later, the opening beat of Billy Idol’s “Mony Mony” burst through the speakers. “Here she come now sayin’, ‘Mony Mony.’?” Deah and her friends interrupted loudly, taking advantage of the two measures of music ahead of Billy’s next lyric by chanting, “Hey, hey slut, get laid, get fucked!” before the speakers blared, “Shoot ’em down, turn around, come on, Mony—”
WHAT DID THEY JUST SAY? I felt a pit in my stomach.
“That’s not part of the song,” whispered Praveen, decisively.
“What’s happening?” Ed Cheng asked. He looked shaken.
We had no idea how the girls learned this surreal refrain, because nobody we knew ever spoke this way in real life.
As the second verse approached, it became clear that Deah expected all her friends to join in the vulgar off-script chant, including me, Praveen, and Ed. Praveen and I were a hard no from the start. I wasn’t about to repeat my “hooker” mistake. Ed started to recite, “Hey, hey…” but then he noticed the videographer and he clammed up. While we wanted to be supportive of our host, the only words of Hey, hey slut, get laid, get fucked! we felt comfortable saying were “hey” and “get,” so the three of us feigned thirst and quietly escaped to the bar area for another Deah Daquiri.
At that very moment, I glanced across to find Deah’s disappointed mom leaning over the railing one deck above us. She looked so elegant, holding her white wine with freshly manicured pink-glitter fingernails,9 a little diamond in the middle of each one. The chagrin on her face was unmistakable. This is it, I thought, Mrs. Fishman is going to pull the plug on that DJ and turn this boat right around. No more MC Hammer immersion.
Ed, Praveen, and I watched with morbid curiosity as Mrs. Fishman steadied herself on the top rail. She took an extra-large swig of her wine, shooting the chardonnay like a sorority girl, and sarcastically shouted, “Nice language, ladies! Very nice language!” Mrs. Fishman then turned back to her friends, who refilled her glass, and Deah’s crew continued with the rest of the song, obscene chant and all.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. First, unbelievable that Deah and her friends had somehow learned this chant (and this was before the internet). Second, unfathomable that they had the guts to request the song from the DJ. And third, completely and totally incomprehensible that they sang it in front of their parents and other adults. And I’m sorry, Mrs. Fishman’s inscrutable reaction was “Nice language, ladies”? That’s it? Are you kidding me?! If a group of us Indian kids chanted, “Hey, hey slut, get laid, get fucked” in front of Bhumi Auntie at Janvi Jhaveri’s sweet sixteen, all the parents would have drowned themselves in the Hudson River out of shame.
I was in total awe. Here was Deah Fishman. She had her own boat, her own DJ, and she could shout her own filthy made-up verses to well-known songs at the top of her lungs because this was her bat mitzvah. This. Girl. Had. It. All! At the age of thirteen I had discovered a whole new world: an envy-inspiring universe of white folks, where adults would merely offer opinions, and instead of enforcing consequences, they’d make observations and go back to their wine.
Deah’s parents allowed her certain independent choices that I was still a few years away from exercising in my own right. Coming off the boat that night, I felt simultaneously invigorated and frightened. It was like the first ocean swim where you force yourself just a few feet beyond where your toes can touch the sand, terrified and exhilarated by the possibility that your reward for this boldness could be a rip current that sucks you out to sea.
Navigating the fear and freedom of independence as a teenager was the grown-up reality that we were all barreling toward—and Deah Fishman had gotten there first.
* * *
Okay, so middle school wasn’t all party boats. I got bullied a lot. This was back when bullying was just something that happened, and not yet the subject of congressional commissions. Some of it was more “bullying lite,” like when the popular girls would purposely bump into me:
ME: Oh, excuse me.
POPULAR GIRLS: Ugh, there is no excuse for you!
Popular Girls storm off laughing.
It was demoralizing in the moment, though I suppose character building in the long run?
Then there was the kind of bullying that wasn’t mild or instructive, even with the benefit of hindsight. Kids like me or Praveen or Ed would get taunted because we were supposedly the weird, ugly, fat, skinny, dark, fill-in-the-blank-different kids. Harshad Shah, who was both Indian and fat, got a double dose. An extra target on our backs came from not wearing designer shoes or jeans. (This is how I learned that Sears did not classify as “designer.”) It wasn’t uncommon to get spit on or beat up between classes, usually with a side order of whatever movie or TV show quote the bully happened to be motivated by.
Chilled monkey brains!10 A whack to the face.
Hey Apu! Thank you, come again!11 Some asshole’s spit lands in your hair.
Long Duk Dong!12 Your books and folders have been thrown sky-high and papers are raining everywhere. (Why didn’t these kids watch wholesome things like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or Back to the Future?!)
Teachers knew this was going on. Most chose to ignore it. One outlier was our kind music director, Mr. Manziano, who freely gave bullied kids passes to “practice music” whenever we wanted. This meant that instead of the hell of a middle school cafeteria, we could retreat to Mr. Manziano’s practice rooms, which is where I ate my lunch most days.
For the bullies at Marlboro Middle School, reciting those catchy lines from some of the most popular mainstream movies and shows weaponized them. The Simpsons, Sixteen Candles, and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom had something in common: stereotypical, dehumanized Asian characters who fueled the bullying.13 Short Circuit had all that and a sweet robot named Johnny 5. Picking up my papers in a crowded hallway with spit dripping from my hair was an intimate way to learn that images of what we all watched on television crept into our thinking.