I started making a list of things that struck me as "different" (we won't say 'strange' because that has some judgmental connotations) when I first arrived in India. Because nothing is strange anymore. Anyway, it started out as a couple things. I stopped at five full pages in my journal with more to come.
Some of the toppers:
When K. arrived in India she asked who owned the cows and how the owners found the cows. A legitimate question, considering that there are cows everywhere and they all look, well, the same. How do you know where in Delhi your cow has wandered off to? A legitimate question. Turns out I'd never even wondered. I simply accepted that you let your cows run wild. How DO you know where your cow has gone?
Babies on motorbikes. That's all I'm sayin'.
Apparently we're moving houses. I find this out when I walk past the renovations on the corner. They're digging a latrine. Oh, intriguing, why exactly? Because you're moving here. In April. Hello life changing announcement delivered without a qualm. All I know about this move I have gathered from the children at After School. Because all of them come up to me saying "new house! New house!" Yes, great, new house. Thanks for letting us know.
"So, why are we moving?"
"Mmm I don't know."
"Are people moving into our house?"
"No your house is closing."
"Interesting. Are Mama and Papa B moving?"
"No they is staying."
"Ok. If you find out when we are moving will you tell me?"
"Theek hai. Okay"
"Shukriya!"
I had to explain a tampon to my Indian mother. Without being able to use a common language. Wanting to crawl into a hole and wither away doesn't even begin to capture my sentiments.
We went to a cricket match in Chandigarh on Saturday night. There were cheerleaders. We're talking American status cheerleaders. White girls, sleazy body tight outfits (complete with plastic red skirts), fake straight hair, bones sticking out every which way, and awful dance moves. I gaped at them the whole game long. How, in the name of all that is holy, did you end up in an Indian cricket stadium? And then to top the entire glittery silver and gold fiasco off, as they ran from the field, the crowd threw paper airplanes and empty cups at them. A reaction of seduction or hatred, I am still not sure.
I have been living in a rural village for 7 months now. And if that isn't out of this world ridiculous, I don't know what is.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Some Days I Feel Small
Some days I am reminded that the world is not bus rides and fairy-tales and happily-ever-afters. Not for all of us. Not for many of us.
I'm back to summer Kristen, which means I am back to the roller-coaster of hourly emotions. It's something about the smell. It smells like summer-time again. One whiff of the sweet Punjabi air and my heart races back to six months ago, to the same queries, the same questions, the same bursting hopes, and I open the living room door half expecting for the old characters to return.
Increasingly it's as if the past six and a half months have been but a dream, even though I am living in it, now. It's as if I am living a life that changed me but never actually came to pass.
And today was a reminder of WHY. It was a reminder of why I am here, of why we soldier on, of why my mind and heart spin from the whirlwind of oppression that women face simply because of their sex. Simply because we are born, simply because we are.
It started this afternoon as I was perusing the New York Times (yes, a favorite pass-time). The "World" section begins with a piece on an abuse case that has roused India's middle class --- a adolescent girl who was molested by a police officer, who came forth about the abuse, and who suffered the most dire consequences imaginable. Her life, literally, became a living hell. First came her expulsion from school, then her brother's arrest and torture, then the threats that the same fate would befall her father. She poisoned herself at 18. The police officer has, finally, been convicted. He will serve 6 months in prison and pay a $22 fine.
Then I went to the shop to buy beer. It is my roommate's 21st, and so I am the party orchestrator (which means I am the dal chef and beer purchaser for the evening). As I turned to leave the shop a man walked past and, subtly, as always, lightly touched my hindquarters. Just barely, of course, so that it can pass as just an accident. I AM ENRAGED. Seething. But what do you do? Chase down this stranger who may or may not have grabbed your ass and pummel his face before breaking the backpack full of beer bottles on his head? It's demeaning, it's infuriating, and it's incredible how one unprovoked touch can cut the very core of your being. You feel... small.
And then the final blow of the afternoon came when the recently filled out surveys were put in my hands. Someone who I deeply adore, someone who I admire, someone who I can say is possible one of the most pure human beings I have ever met answered that, in all of the hypothetical situations cited, domestic violence is sometimes justified. Not never, not always, but sometimes.
Justified... justified... justified.
Even the dead cement floor heard my heart break.
So today I am reminded of the walls, the roadblocks, the deeply engrained prejudice, the mistreatment, the centuries we must overcome. I am reminded of what it is to be a woman, of what it is to feel small because of your rage, of what it is to have a passing hand's touched seared into your upper thigh like a scabbing tattoo. It's like the layer of skin is enlarged. You can feel it, even hours after the touch is gone.
Today I feel small.
And all this, every ounce of it, is personal.
I'm back to summer Kristen, which means I am back to the roller-coaster of hourly emotions. It's something about the smell. It smells like summer-time again. One whiff of the sweet Punjabi air and my heart races back to six months ago, to the same queries, the same questions, the same bursting hopes, and I open the living room door half expecting for the old characters to return.
Increasingly it's as if the past six and a half months have been but a dream, even though I am living in it, now. It's as if I am living a life that changed me but never actually came to pass.
And today was a reminder of WHY. It was a reminder of why I am here, of why we soldier on, of why my mind and heart spin from the whirlwind of oppression that women face simply because of their sex. Simply because we are born, simply because we are.
It started this afternoon as I was perusing the New York Times (yes, a favorite pass-time). The "World" section begins with a piece on an abuse case that has roused India's middle class --- a adolescent girl who was molested by a police officer, who came forth about the abuse, and who suffered the most dire consequences imaginable. Her life, literally, became a living hell. First came her expulsion from school, then her brother's arrest and torture, then the threats that the same fate would befall her father. She poisoned herself at 18. The police officer has, finally, been convicted. He will serve 6 months in prison and pay a $22 fine.
Then I went to the shop to buy beer. It is my roommate's 21st, and so I am the party orchestrator (which means I am the dal chef and beer purchaser for the evening). As I turned to leave the shop a man walked past and, subtly, as always, lightly touched my hindquarters. Just barely, of course, so that it can pass as just an accident. I AM ENRAGED. Seething. But what do you do? Chase down this stranger who may or may not have grabbed your ass and pummel his face before breaking the backpack full of beer bottles on his head? It's demeaning, it's infuriating, and it's incredible how one unprovoked touch can cut the very core of your being. You feel... small.
And then the final blow of the afternoon came when the recently filled out surveys were put in my hands. Someone who I deeply adore, someone who I admire, someone who I can say is possible one of the most pure human beings I have ever met answered that, in all of the hypothetical situations cited, domestic violence is sometimes justified. Not never, not always, but sometimes.
Justified... justified... justified.
Even the dead cement floor heard my heart break.
So today I am reminded of the walls, the roadblocks, the deeply engrained prejudice, the mistreatment, the centuries we must overcome. I am reminded of what it is to be a woman, of what it is to feel small because of your rage, of what it is to have a passing hand's touched seared into your upper thigh like a scabbing tattoo. It's like the layer of skin is enlarged. You can feel it, even hours after the touch is gone.
Today I feel small.
And all this, every ounce of it, is personal.
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