The Days of Moving

Thank you for years of following my thought processes here at this site. I am officially (and FINALLY, after over a year of trying to make it happen) moving to a different site. It's the same blog, although a few tags and comments have been misplaced. It just feels like the right time to make the move. Keep following me at: http://elizabethbroberts.wordpress.com/.

In Defense of Heritage

Heritage is a funny thing. I have a funny relationship with it and have often felt that I needed to explain mine away. But John Ray recently wrote his second-ever blogpost about the complexities of heritage, and I have several posts waiting to hatch in the metaphorical incubator for blogs...so it feels good to take some time to talk about where I come from. Like the former president George W. Bush said, if it feels good, do it. (Kids, don't try that at home.)

Before talking about diversity, other cultures, what government policies should/shouldn't be implemented, controversial current events, etc., it is so important to understand and appreciate where we come from. In recent job interviews, I have frequently been asked to describe how I identify culturally. The interviews that didn't feature that question at least allowed me to "tell about" myself. And the tidbits I chose to divulge and not divulge in those moments are important.

So let's talk about heritage. My heritage. You can talk about your heritage, too, and you should! But here's me.

It is so hard growing up in small towns in the South. All I, and most of my friends, ever wanted to do was get out. I think that stems more from the "growing up" part and less from the Southern small towns. Oh, the burden of adolescence. I was, for years, uncomfortable with being Southern, being American, being White, and being whatever socioeconomic class I thought my family fit into while in middle and high school (let's just say I learned a lot more about the American economic system in college). I couldn't ignore the negatives and guilt associated with my social identifiers. So I spent years denying those parts of me or over-explaining myself to prove that I did not truly fit into the negative associations...or even the positive ones. We moved several times, and each time, I sought a friend group that was diverse in any number of ways...perhaps to prove I was not the sum of my social identifiers. In college, I learned to call many of my identifiers "privileged" and how to unpack the invisible privilege backpack (see Peggy McIntosh or Wikipedia for more information). I also questioned other parts of my heritage--my Christianity, my beliefs, my (dis)abilities--for the sake of questioning. Pick a social identifier, any social identifier: I questioned that one, too. I question. It's who I am. I think it is the responsible thing to do as long as you don't drive yourself crazy with it.

While I was in college traveling the world and having weekly conversations with my little diverse Bonner Program bubble on the predominantly white College of Charleston campus, I came to appreciate the fact that I could identify as American or Southern or White or Christian...and it not be an implicitly bad thing. As a junior in college, I got back in touch with pieces of those social identifiers that I love: I started listening to bluegrass and tried to pick up the banjo, I watched NASCAR races, I made apple pies from scratch, I fell in love with the poetry of liturgy. I embraced the positive parts of my heritage. I was honest and open about who I was without feeling like I had to explain away the negative parts: those unearned privileges and not-so-pretty patterns of history.

To my surprise, I was not welcomed into the diversity world with open arms. I had watched several of my Black female friends reclaim their natural hair as they embraced their heritage. It was such a celebrated act. But when I talked about watching NASCAR, people were confused because I didn't look like the "rednecks" they expected were into NASCAR. They certainly didn't celebrate my learning to embrace my heritage, and they didn't stop for the stories about watching races with my dad (we would both always sleep through most of the race) or about how memorable it was for me when Dale Earnhardt died (seriously, ask me to tell you the story and I might still cry). I guess it's one of those privilege/oppression things. I know the White community is overprivileged in a way that disadvantages other races. I know the same is true for Christians in America, people with a college education, middle-classers, U.S. citizens, etc. I believe it is important to look past social identifiers, sources of privilege, and even diversity to instead hear people's unique and untainted stories. To create my story, I have spent a lot of time considering who I am and all the privilege/oppression issues to which my heritage inherently connects me. I bring a very important piece to diversity conversations: myself. And I promise that I will constantly check my privilege...but also that I will be completely transparent about who I am, what my heritage is.

16 year-old me getting in touch with my roots (pun SO intended) via the oak tree in Greenwood

Getting Out of the Self-Absorption Closet

I've been pretty self-absorbed lately. Ironic, as I sit here writing a blogpost about...well, me. I'm usually very introspective, which can be both extremely healthy and extremely detrimental to my mental state. I like to keep it on the healthy, centering side of things as much as possible. No, lately I've been less concerned about contemplating who I am and how I live my life and much more concerned with stressing over the little things (my apologies to the universe for the amount of frustration I have recently expressed needlessly). Self-reflective versus self-absorbed. See the difference?

I realized it last week when John Ray and I sat down with the book of Common Prayer (specifically the one by Shane Claiborne prescribed for "ordinary radicals"). We were going through the liturgy and came to three bolded words that threw me for a loop: "Prayer for Others." Jesus Christ, there are others?! I thought, giving John Ray a look of bewilderment. He shrugged his shoulders and, realizing I was not going to say my prayer for others out loud, bowed his head to silently pray. In defense of myself, I honestly have felt very removed from any world outside our apartment. I (in my biased opinion) did a good job keeping the whole wedding season from being one big Elizabeth-fest because I wanted it to be about both of us and all of our family/friends. Now, though, we're in a new city where we've met few people and don't truly know anyone. So in terms of "others" here in Louisville, I didn't think I had anyone to pray for. Perhaps I could pray that others would be sent my way? I suggested to the dumbfounded silence in me. I have "others," though, who live in Charleston...Rock Hill...other places. Yet, I have felt so distant from them while trying to establish a new life here that I didn't have anything to meditate on for them. My life has been centered on creating a house and home, cooking and eating, looking for jobs, and watching Netflix when my introverted brain can take no more. Please, God, not another seven pages of job listings that are just barely interesting...but just interesting enough to make me read through all of them.

This started the thinking process...and a week later, here I sit: in my closet at midnight with all the lights off. Mostly because I kept John Ray up with abstract questions ("Do you think any person is ever completely powerless?") until I felt so guilty that I let him fall asleep only to have the questions continue floating around in my head--moving from self-absorption to self-reflection, stretching those forgotten muscles in anticipation. Just an example: I know that if I was truer to myself and read Huffington Post articles about interfaith prayer strengthening communities instead of brain-melting as I scroll through Facebook, unfollowing people who post too much, I would feel more energized and more connected with the world. I would probably view our neighbors, who seem just as shy as I seem severely allergic to small talk, as people to get to know and not people to check out the blinds for to decide if I should delay getting the mail or not...But I hyperbolize.

I am working on a post about "prayer" (to be defined and reimagined in various ways, I promise) because it's something I have spent a lot of time deconstructing and exploring. Also, my little sister and I just had an awesome conversation about it that was everything I needed and more. So that's coming. But first, I needed to sit in my closet and work through the blurriness of self-reflection and self-absorption. It's for me, but hey, you've joined in now and why not let it be for you, too? Self-absorption is insecure while self-reflection demonstrates how secure the mind really can be. Self-absorption disguises itself as a need so often (i.e. I need to figure out how I fit in this job description so I can get a job) while self-reflection allows honesty and vulnerability to be remarkably powerful. I volunteered during college as a direct defense to the self-absorbed thought processes that leave me depressed and anxious, while self-reflection was a powerful tool to take my service to a lifestyle of questioning injustice and pursuing peace. That shouldn't change now.

There are others. I just need to change my perspective and approach. Right now, they might come in the form of abstracts and possibilities, news articles and hypothetical community members; they might be people I need to get back in touch with in an attempt to continue living life alongside them...even states away. I'm hoping that they also come in the form of real, honest community here in Louisville.

I had a blog once. It was awful.

This past year has been brutal on my blogging. To be fair, most of my desire to write was sucked dry by my Bachelor's Essay, which became a beast of a creation: 16 single-spaced pages of people's volunteer stories and my analysis of it all. I also spent what little free time I had applying for jobs and helping my husband plan a wedding. Well, the wedding thing worked out, but the job? Jury's still out on that one. Between my senior year coursework and helping the lovely Eliza Blades and Laura Mewbourn run the Bonner Leader Program at CofC, I had nothing left when the day was over. So I mindnumbingly watched a lot of Netflix: Breaking Bad, Psych, The Walking Dead, movies on movies on movies. I regret not blogging through my spring break trip to Guatemala and missing out on this reflective space that allows me to make beautiful connections through the craziest year of my life.

But I'm now living a new life, in a new state, in a new apartment, with a new name and a new roommate (hey, John Ray, who doesn't read over my shoulder nearly as much as I read over his). It feels like a good time to pick this blog up, brush off the dust, and reimagine what it will be.

Blogging can be like having an existential crisis all the time. I constantly ask: What should my blog be about? Is this life event significant enough to write about? Am I witty enough? Do people get my sense of humor? Will people care to read about that random thing that happened to me? Would they like more pictures? Does anyone actually read this thing? Is my life meaningful at all?! Okay, not the last one so much. A blog sometimes feels something like an unpleasant growth on the side of your face. People stare at it, but don't ask about it. The word "blog" itself is too uncomfortable to mention anyway. You can't just walk into any room and declare, "I HAVE A BLOG." No, that won't do at all.

But I've made the move from Charleston, SC to Louisville, KY, and, as uncomfortable as it is to say, I'd like to bring my blog along with me. I've traded the Atlantic Ocean and quaint historic houses for rolling green hills and a quirky industrial city with horse and bourbon obsessions. We're trying to find new digs and niches, and basically, I'm not sure where life is taking me from here. Right now, I'm reveling in the joys of watching any World Cup game I want and going to bed before 10 every night. I'm also marveling at how easily I get antsy and frustrated and irrational while my unemployed self sits at home all day staring at job listings. So perhaps my blog and I will be helping each other do some reimagining here.

Welcome to my transition space.
I make no promises, so expect only me. 

Having Conversations: Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement of Today

How do we remember Martin Luther King, Jr. and the civil rights movement of the 1960s? Posting an inspirational quote from Dr. King as an obligatory Facebook status? Buying into racist stereotypes (it happened: http://www.charlestoncitypaper.com/HaireoftheDog/archives/2014/01/20/celebrating-mlk-day-with-fried-chicken-and-40s-of-oe)? Taking a day off from school and work? Participating in a “day on, not a day off” by doing service (it also happened: http://news.cofc.edu/2014/01/20/4-martin-luther-king-jr-day-2014-events-and-activities-hosted-by-the-college-of-charleston/)?

This is a couple weeks late, but I want to propose that we commemorate Dr. King and a civil rights movement necessitating our attention still today by doing what the activists of the 1960s did: have conversations. Perhaps that is overly simplistic, but as I have been thinking about the collection of rights people advocate for today (equality among races, sexual orientations, religions, abilities, nationalities and citizenship statuses), I have noticed a common thread. We struggle to have conversations.

Remember the great government shutdown of 2013? Yes, of course you do. It’s what happened when the government struggled to have real conversations. It happens on much smaller scales: within churches, on college campuses, in neighborhoods, across generations. When I try to remember the real conversations I’ve had in the past month, they’re few and far between. I mean, I talk to people all the time—those I agree with and those I don’t. But the times I have talked about real issues with people and actively listened to their side, civilly presented my thoughts, and each of us allowed the others’ opinions to matter significantly…those times are few.

As part of “Share the Dream” week on the College of Charleston campus, Jose Antonio Vargas, an undocumented American and successful American journalist, spoke about what it means to be American—both documented and undocumented. He connected immigrant rights with the civil rights movement of the 1960s. He gave the statistics and stories to propose that immigrant rights are important, that “no human being is ‘illegal.’” I walked away from his talk with a more meta message, though. His talk was much more about having conversations, and I think one of the clips he showed from his documentary, "Documented," encapsulated that. In the clip, he was interviewing an Alabama college student about recent legislation requiring students to present papers as proof of their citizenship when a man in the background of the shot decided to share his opinion, which greatly differed from both Vargas’s and the student’s. This man implied that all immigrants—legal or not—should leave the country because they are stealing jobs from Americans. Vargas didn’t shut him down (or let himself shut down), but allowed the man to express his opinion, asking him questions because he genuinely wanted to learn a different perspective from this man. And perhaps because Vargas listened to him, the man was then interested in Vargas’s story. They fist-pumped at the end of the clip, each apparently having learned something from the other. Heart-warming, right?

I don’t have to imagine how this conversation could have taken a different turn: I’ve seen it happen before. People get offended and defensive, calling one another “close-minded.” Liberal views and conservative views can both be close-minded, when everyone sees their own views as right and others’ views as wrong. There is no room for conversation.

I have been guilty of being on both sides of inability to have conversation. Now, I want the conversations, because out of conversations, movements are born.

The Poet's Obligation

For months, I have been prying myself with one question: who told you that you could stop writing?

I have blamed a trip to India, busy semester, job applications, exhaustion, John Ray, a “boring” life; anything and everything to excuse my lack of words. At the end of the day, though, whether or not anyone reads the words, I sincerely do believe it is my obligation to write. As Pablo Neruda explains in “Deber del Poeta,” it is the writer’s obligation to write the sea into life for those who cannot experience it for themselves.

I promise I will return. And soon.

in!Genius

I believe in the power of stories to create change.

But when I was asked to share my story, I was initially skeptical  that people would want to hear what I had to say. 

A wise person in my life likes to tell me that I will not be able to empower others if I don't first empower myself, so I began digging around in my life for a story worth telling, a story that might create change. 

On September 25th, a night of free thinkers and free stuff that we at the College of Charleston like to call "in!Genius," I had the incredible opportunity to share my story with a theatre full of students, faculty, community members, and my dearest friends. Now that it has been told, I'd like to pack it away for awhile and work on creating some new stories. But for those of you who missed it, here it is. Grab some popcorn and enjoy!

A Poem Excavated from a Summer in India: "Pilgrimage"

"Pilgrimage"

Follow me, walk these paths, step where I step.
The rocks under your feet are ancient,
Worn by the bare feet of pilgrims before you.
The city's noise is worn away by your steps; today
You are the pilgrim. And I, the spirit guiding you
Up the mountain and then down the other side.
Pay your respects--press rupees into the palms of
Beggars who ask for chocolate, "namaste" the sadhus,
Touch your forehead and then heart as you pass
Smaller mandirs, feed peanuts to the monkeys.
Good karma, madame, good karma.

The holy water from the Ganges
Pools up where the steps meet, where monkeys swim,
Where pilgrims bathe all filth away,
Redefining baptism for the pale-faced visitors
Who snap inauspicious pictures of monkeys
And jokingly call it the "bandir mandir."

Assume this: every Indian is a Hindu.
Assume this: every American is a Christian.

Sadhu, darshan, prasad, puja, pandit--
Wonder at the context of your textbook Hinduism
Here in the corners of these mountains. The cave
Wall is painted orange and silver--Hanuman, the
Monkey god, found in the cave and brought to life.
You too are brought to life, but not by the exchange
Of gaze, of sight (darshan),
But by the journey (yatra),
And by the people who approach you (pandits, sadhus, bakhari, tirthyatri).

"You believe in God?"
Certainly, but which one?

We are moving from angry tears
Cried on second floor balconies with our hands
Pushing into our eyes to mountain top temples
Made of painted cave walls and millions
Of muttered prayers. I am trying
To imagine myself as a mountaintop temple
Wearing marigold garlands and perching
Barefoot on the crags, toes curled protectively.
I catch sight of everyone else perched on their
Mountains and wave, stretch arms out
Like a crucifix and take flight.

From India to America: Who Needs Feminism?

The end of any journey usually falls prey to the hectic, frenzied drive to do ALL the things. My last week in India, I was delirious with a fever (and telling myself jokes I didn't understand as I napped away precious hours), but I managed to revisit some of my favorite places, spend a little extra time with my host family, complete my final project for class (a collection of short stories about the women I met), and feel panicked about returning home. A month later, I'm a little more removed from my life there, and, as Sara Marie Chilson told me, CLS doesn't feel real anymore. The deep effects my two months in India have had on my life, however, feel very real. Every single day.

People ask me the questions: How was India? How's your Hindi now? Weren't you there on a mission trip? Do you want to go back? Your questions are all wrong. Take them back please.

I once asserted, in a casual conversation, that it would take 300 lifetimes to understand everything I experienced. How true that feels today...so I am working through piece by piece. And I want to start with a piece that is less-than-pleasant, but a piece that has been eerily relevant to me back here, at home in the brick sidewalks of the College of Charleston campus. It starts with this picture:

Here I stand, putting on my dupatta, which always gave my trouble, as I wait with three of my peers to go into Albert Hall on one of our Saturday excursions. The art exhibited inside was phenomenal, although I only took pictures of the pigeons that perched amid the gorgeous architecture. I gaped in fascination in the rooms of ancient weaponry and stroked my fingers along the glass cases that held calendar art. I made a friend in a pre-teen boy who was surprisingly unperplexed that I spoke Hindi and who kept bringing his friends to meet me. This is the truth of my day, but it is missing a very routine piece that shaped everyday life for me. Here's the bigger picture:

It's the same concept--me putting on my dupatta and talking with my friends. Now, though, observe why my back is turned. I didn't know about this picture, and I don't think the woman who took it was trying to make a statement, but there it is: the reality underlying many of my experiences, the small herd of men staring. Sometimes they had cameras. Sometimes they called out to us (I kept a record of some of the funnier comments I heard). Sometimes they approached us. Infrequently they would make a move on one of my friends. 

The euphemism used in India is "eve teasing," but let's call it what it is: sexual harassment. Foreign women face it everyday. So do Indian women. And don't get me wrong, for every herd of rude men, there were ten other men who averted their eyes--the respectable thing to do in Jaipur--and who were willing to shoo those men away from the rickshaw where we waited while the rickshawala asked directions. 

At first, I was afraid to walk alone, but I learned how to walk with purpose. No one bothered me if I gave off the vibe that I was not a stranger to those parts, that I knew where I was going. 

Then, I was enraged when my friends faced more overt harassment than the random catcalls. 

A few times, I was proud when my friends took action, calling the police, creating a scene, making the men delete pictures of us from their phones. 

Eventually, I grew accustomed to the situation, accepted that every time I would walk to my favorite coffee shop, I would be hassled or stared at. It was as habitual as brushing my teeth. I ignored it all. I lived my life as I wanted to, careful always but no longer afraid. 

A friend back home in the States messaged me one day telling me the story of how she had been sexually assaulted the weekend before...yes, in the States...while she was with her friends. And there I was in a major city in India, perfectly protected as far as I was concerned. Perhaps that should have prepared me for transition back into American society. It didn't.

The worst culture shock I have ever experienced in all my traveling was coming back to the United States after my two months in India. I burst into tears the first time I walked down Calhoun St. because 1) there were just so many women (most public spaces in Jaipur were male-dominated) and 2) I realized how much the day-to-day harassment had indeed impacted me. I walked with my eyes down, moving quickly. But there were no men paying me any attention at all. Oh no, the harassment of women here in America tends to be much more subtle, hiding in the subliminal messages of media and in the expectations of how we look, disguised in jokes (which, when I interrupt, are explained to be "just jokes, come on, Elizabeth!") and in the statistics (women continue to make 77 cents to every dollar a man makes...and this is 2013). The culture shock was so extreme, not because I realized how terrible of a place India was for women, but because I realized how similar Charleston, SC can be to Jaipur, India. That hurts me deeply.

I'll admit it. I'm a feminist. I was a feminist before I went to India, and guess what...I still think women's rights are important simply because they are not yet equal to men's rights. And the entire time I have been writing this, I have been thinking, Maybe this is too harsh. Maybe I should convey more optimism, less pain. This is my reality, has been my reality for a few months now. It has affected me, my relationships, my future plans. I'm okay with it changing me. I am not okay with sexual harassment continuing and I will interrupt it when I see it. 

I write this to maintain my integrity because I can talk all day about my time in India but it remains incomplete if I do not include this. I write this so that you can hear it and be aware that this happens in India and in America. I write this because it is part of my story and because I want to open doors to conversations about this not-so-pleasant but oh-so-real subject. 

Ask your questions. Challenge my words. Tell me your stories. 

They Don't Call It Barefoot College Because You Have to Take Your ShoesOff (Even Though You Do)

I have grown to dislike urban India--the blaring traffic, the excessive shopping, the lack of natural green spaces. This is a problem because I am living in Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan and an important city for history and culture. I know there are pros and cons. I know that urban India offers me European-style toilets, access to Oreos and coffee, (mostly) paved roads, a more progressive look at many relevant social issues... But I feel so much more alive when I escape the city streets and find myself in smaller towns and villages.

On Saturday, I field tripped it with the rest of the CLS students to Tilonia, by way of Pushkar. Tolonia is the most rural place I've visited here so far, but it is home to Barefoot College, a truly remarkable organization. We spent the day exploring the two campuses of Barefoot College, surrounded by fields, trees, mountains, and even a small concrete platform where three men were randomly working out. (The are always surprises.) Some of the other students were not so thrilled, made comments about "poverty tourism," or just grumbled about having to stomp through the rain and mud to get from building to building. At first, the cynic in me searched for problems with this organization, things that were not on the up and up or were damaging the community. But I managed to turn the cynical voice off and just be amazed by this inspirational place. I'm sure there are faults, there are better ways to do what they're doing, but I wasn't there to diagnose or change. I was there to learn and let myself be changed.

Barefoot College was started in this rural village as a place for people from rural communities as a place that provides basic services and sustainable solutions. It was founded by the "poor" and is fully run by the "poor." I didn't see a single foreigner there other than the other students and a few interns from NGOs nearby who were taking the week to learn from Barefoot College. Everyone there is from a rural village or community. 

Okay, so I lied a little. I did see foreigners, but not in the way one normally sees foreigners at an international NGO. Typically foreigners are there running programs and making decisions (usually to please foreign funders).  On the first campus we visited, there was a building where groups of women were learning to build solar powered lights. I first noticed the Tibetan prayer flags strung near the ceiling on one end of the long, rectangular room...then I realized the women were clearly not all Indian. Some were from Tibet, Myanmar, Panama (Yes! Spanish! Unfortunately all my Spanish is disappearing into my Hindi...), Sudan, and other places that escape me right now. According to one of the men who teaches there, these women come from their villages, stay at the College while they learn this skill, and then return home, bringing knowledge about solar powered lights back with them. In one of my cynical   moments, I scanned every face, searching for a sign that something was amiss, but I found nothing...

There was another room where people turned old materials into new useful products: journals, toys, bags. There was weaving happening in an old church left behind from British rule and clusters of mirrored ovens calibrated to follow the sun. At the other campus, we saw the women's development center the College runs, a building where women were making sanitary napkins (that aren't exported or sold but given to nearby hostels and clinics for use in educating women), and a health center complete with a "barefoot dentist," several acupuncturists, and a homeopathic pharmacy. The grand finale was a room lined with stringed instruments and an assortment of puppets. It was the communications department, naturally. Apparently theater has a huge influence when it comes to informing the public here, and so the people in the communications department use their creative skills to ensure that nearby villagers know about information, such as their right to a living wage. Our time in that room may have jumped the shark a bit when we sang a bilingual version of "We Shall Overcome." But still, it was a beautiful moment.

The entire tour was in Hindi, except for the man who works in the women's development center and who got a little carried away with English as he was talking with us. And much to my surprise, I actually understood almost everything, not because it was especially easy Hindi but because I was interested in what they were saying and managed to outsmart my ever-shortening attention span. I am completely inspired by how non-condescending their model is, the way people learn from one another and then go back and teach their villages. Barefoot College emphasizes the fact that formal education is not necessary for people to make a decent living, which is an idea that wouldn't stand up well in the States, but in Tolonia, it seems very effective, empowering, revolutionary. I left feeling so energized. It seemed like such a dignifying place, maintaining the Gandhian spirit of service...

The only thing I was left wanting was a conversation with someone other than the leaders we met. I would have loved to employ my Hindi skills and talk to one of the women sitting on a stool in the long room creating a panel for a solar powered light with tools I'd never seen before. I would have loved to hear their stories from them. But that's what I always want: Story.

In classic Alternative Break form, I feel it is necessary to ask, "Now what?" What do I do with this experience, this space, the inspiration? I don't know yet. I have a few thoughts...but they are very incomplete. As I am working on my proposal for a Fulbright research grant, I'm now seriously considering applying to research women's roles in NGO work. I talked with the man leading us around and he explained to me that about 40% of the fieldworkers are women, but very few women are actually in a leadership role. He says they are trying to raise up women leaders in the community, so that decisions about their development actually rests in their hands. 

Still thinking, hey, this girl is nuts...there's no way that place is making a real difference because it was started by uneducated people with no experience running an NGO...? Watch this TEDtalk and please suspend your cynicism and disbelief. Let yourself be inspired to act as I have been. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qqqVwM6bMM&sns=em

Off the Well-Worn Tourist Trail for a Day

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined." -Thoreau (props to Dad for the inspirational quote)

Enter through the Sanganeri Gate. Resist the urge to walk straight along the main road toward the Hawa Mahal and the touristy shops. Take an immediate right. Lose yourself for a moment in the unexpected and out-of-place crowd surging into a bazaar on a Sunday. Remember yourself again when you catch a number of locals staring, calling out "Hello! How are you?" Notice only locals' faces around you and deduce that videshis must not frequent this market. Look left and right. See everyday wares--the plastic buckets, bangles in clear cellophane wrappers, piles of men's button downs, packages of steel wool, striped underwear bound with rubber bands--instead of the usual Rajasthani themed souvenirs. Lose yourself again in the crowd...

In case you haven't picked up on this little detail yet, I like finding pockets of India (well, just Rajasthan for now) in which tourists haven't yet left their mark. It's in these places that I get the most stares, but it lets me feel less like a tourist and more like a traveler. I know I'm only here for two months, but unlike the majority of tourists, I am here with the sole purpose of learning the language and culture, which is difficult to do when I'm just another face in a flock of 35 Americans being shown the polished, upper class side of Jaipur. 

Today I set off for the Old City with one of my friends, Sara, and we found ourselves in the unpolished bazaars and side streets of Jaipur. It was wonderful, exhilarating, and actually a little nerve-wracking at times. We encountered so many characters:

A man wearing all purple who, to be sure we saw him, jumped in front of us with his hands out on either side of his head like moose antlers and said something along the lines of "Ah!"...A boy selling bangles who didn't know to give us the foreigner price (100 rupees, everything everywhere is 100 rupees if you are a foreigner), but instead gave us the Indian price without any bargaining on our part. Can you even imagine?!...A man who stopped us to ask us in accented English where we were from. Sara promptly replied, "Germany," to get him to leave us alone, and he immediately switched to a similarly accented German...Another man who came up to ask if Sara played basketball (bahut lambee! he says)...And of course, the hordes of kids that look up at us wide-eyed and wave or smile bashfully, tugging at their mothers' sarees...

It's tricky to negotiate how to respond to the characters we meet. So many people look, call out, somehow try to get our attention all the time. I could never respond to everyone, and it's often wise to not respond to certain people. But I spent the first few weeks shutting myself down to the people around me because that is what I was told to do. Today, as I have been in the practice of doing lately, I let myself be open. And it felt very good to actually meet eyes, hear the blend of Hindi and English, return the smiles of little children...

To my delight, Sara and I decided we had managed to find the Muslim section of the city. We kept passing men selling the hats Muslim men wear on the crowns of their heads and books in both Hindi and Urdu with Islamic themes. We stumbled upon three of the most beautiful masjids I've ever seen. I was under the impression that masjids in the city were few and far between...and mostly disguised. But that was just not the case at all. I had my touristy moment for the day and stopped to take a picture.

Here in Jaipur, instead of the lone minaret that towers above all surrounding buildings that I saw on each mosque in Morocco, the masjids have two rounded towers framing the building. I think I could lose myself studying the architecture of all the different religious buildings here. Whether Muslim, Hindu, Jain, or Sikh, people do not mess around when designing the intricacies of their houses of worship. 

Anyway, Sara and I did some shopping but mostly explored until we both reached our limit of heat, sweat, and crowds for the day. We actually used Hindi. Well, she successfully used her Hindi and I attempted...my accent is still not very good. And I feel like I saw the most honest picture of the culture here yet. I am going to make a point of getting out of my CLS and Raja Park bubbles because this new picture of Jaipur is much more the life I have imagined than the one on which I currently reside.

This Just In...

It is certainly strange to hear important news from home while I'm in India. I have more frequent Internet than I ever expected for my summer in Jaipur, so not only have I been trying to keep up with the happenings in people's personal lives via the Facebook, but I've also been reading about national news. And a lot has been going on, to say the least. Don't get me wrong. It's not that the Internet is a strange medium to receive important news. I live in a college bubble most of the year, and that is often the only way to find out news. It's more that my life here in Jaipur is a strange setting to receive a lot of the news I'm receiving. I'm wearing my India goggles and they make things feel stranger, fatter, and harder to get my mind around.

Okay, that's enough vagueness.

I'm writing this in light of the recent news that George Zimmerman was declared not guilty of second degree murder of Trayvon Martin. From my perch in the common area of my host family's house, I've also read about the Supreme Court decision regarding marriage rights, several friends' engagements and marriages, news of illnesses and death, movies' success at the box office, and the everyday ups and downs of my closest friends' lives, among other things. This post is not a revelation that people's lives are going on and changing even while I am an ocean and a continent away. No, instead, this is a realization at how strange it is to process all of this news in a different culture and language, surrounded by a collection of people unlike any I've ever been surrounded by before this summer. 

With the Supreme Court decision to recognize marriages between people of the same sex, I was struck by how different "marriage rights" are in India compared to back home. Here, heteronormative culture is rampant and seems unchallengeable. Marriage rights involve the ages of the man and woman involved, the discontinuation of the traditional dowry paid to a husband's family, marriage across caste lines, gender roles within a marriage, and arranged versus love marriage (I've had the latter conversation with so many different locals). But with both India and the States' contemporary concepts of marriage rights, there are people who are privileged to not have to think about it and there are people who come face to face with it everyday. I have met some women at the women's center where I've been teaching English who have been directly affected by the rights they are allotted in marriage as women. I both love hearing their stories and am crushed by the reality they deal with. On the other hand, one of my host sisters recently got engaged and is fortunate enough to be marrying a man she loves and truly wants to marry. Just like any relationship, I know she has faced some controversy, some obstacles. But I don't believe she has to think about marriage rights on a daily basis.  Back at home, I have friends who are not so fortunate and who have had to think a lot about laws and social expectations regarding marriage. I wonder how their lives will change because of this new development. I wonder how this new decision will affect the culture, the religion, the social climate...I am antsy to see it first hand!

With the Zimmerman trial, I can watch the racial tensions play out on my Facebook news feed. Racial tensions exist here in India, too, but they don't hit so close to home for me (well, that expression works on so many different levels). In this moment, I wish I could be back to hear the frustrations, the controversies, the thoughts about what this means for different communities...because I worry it will blow over by the time I return (in less than a month). I worry that the cries of "Where has justice gone?" will have been silenced by time and acceptance of the turn of events. For now, though, I will watch and wait. Maybe I will let this news open doors here to talk about the complex relationships between people of different races, religions, castes, etc. as they affect people in Jaipur. 

Today my heart is heavy for all that I feel like I am missing--not the food (oh my word, I want waffles so badly) or the AC, not Starbucks or blue jean shorts (where I come from, we call those "jorts"), but the experiences, conversations, and presence that I am not able to share. Let's be real, though. I'm in India, a place I've wanted to be for quite some time now. I'm not having the same experiences and conversations as my community back home, but the ones I am having are great, most excellent, very very good, madame! Sorry, that's what all the shopkeepers like to yell at me about the quality of their wares. I digress. 

Well, I'm off for some more Sunday adventures. Until next time, may your mango chutney always be unexpectedly spicy. 

A Day Out of Jaipur

Sunday adventures strike again!

I got up early and caught a rickshaw and then a bus with Coco, Sara, Catherine, Liz, and one of my host sisters, Aastha, to a small town about 100km from Jaipur. The bus ride itself was quite the experience because it was crowded, not air-conditioned, and quite bumpy. With my knees jammed into the seat in front of me, I stared out the window for the entire hour and a half, watching as city became countryside when we went through a tunnel cutting into a mountain. My eyes picked out of the green fields women working and wearing orange scarves. When we got off the bus, I breathed in the cleanest air I'd breathed in almost a month, which isn't saying much really. A nearby shopkeeper gave us directions to the Mehandipur Balaji Mandir, the exorcism temple dedicated to Hanuman which was our intended destination, and we began the 3-4km walk. It was my first time out of Jaipur, and I was a little surprised at how much more attention we attracted in this rural area than we do in the city, which is saying a lot because a group of foreign women turn a lot of heads even in the big city. 

After getting some water and exploring the main street of the city, we got in line to enter the temple, and I couldn't resist comparing it to waiting in line at Carowinds. I was covered in sweat as we packed into a lane divided by metal fencing and the overhead fans oscillated so quickly they threatened to spin out of control. I let my hand wander along the pieces of thread and padlocks people waiting in line before me had attached to the fence. Within the first fifteen minutes, the atmosphere of the line shifted from calm and casual to aggressive and surging. I lost touch with the fence, and found myself surrounded by people--a writer's dream come true! There was so much to see and overhear. I noticed for the first time how much "visual" diversity there is here among the people. Chanting broke out frequently ("जय बालाजी!") and the two hours that we spent in line were almost more eventful than our actual experience in the temple. It was so intriguing to be part of the crowd, although as a distinctly non-Indian, I will never be truly part of the crowd it seems. At one point, one of the women in my group got overheated and almost passed out, swaying slightly as she tried to maintain her ground in the river of people. We got her cooled down and seated for a bit, but people around us frantically told us to go ahead into the temple, thinking that she was possibly possessed. It was an exorcism temple after all. 

Inside, the temple was smokey and fairly dark. Now, it all feels like a blur--the unexpected hallways, the dust on my feet, the dizziness I felt because of the smoke filling the space around my brain, the murti that was (to my surprise) painted with silver and yellow wiggling stripes, the coconuts brought as puja piled up behind the fences that contained the visitors, people stooping to touch their foreheads to the ground along the way. The crowd ushered us through a hallway and back outside where we climbed some stairs to enter a large room. Inside the large room, a couple exorcisms were taking place, and I was overwhelmingly curious about the women who were screaming and gently tapping their heads against the floor, supposedly spirit possessed. People sat on the floor around them either watching or participating. I wish I knew more, could have lingered in each moment for longer...but suddenly I was back in the sun waiting for the rest of my group. As I waited, I watched goats eat rice and a little girl carefully imitate her mother's kneeling outside the large room. I don't possess the language to accurately talk about all that I experienced, but it was definitely thought-provoking and memorable. 

After the mandir, we got some rocking food from a street vendor with a sweet face and a little girl helping her. For what felt like the hundreth time that day, we drew a crowd. Other street vendors teased the woman who was making our food, saying how it must be her lucky day and asking if she was running a five-star hotel now. It's so interesting to be a foreigner here but also be able to understand a lot of what people say about and around me. 

Reenergized and overly full, we got a rickshaw. The rickshawala took us about 10m and told us that we had reached the bus stop. Nope. We hadn't. It became a rather vicious argument, yet again drawing the crowds. But we walked away and found a better, more respectable rickshawala to take us to the actual bus stop. From there, we got a bus and had a peaceful ride home. I couldn't tell if it was the overwhelming amount of newness in my experience or the overbearing sun that made me sweat through so many layers of clothes, but I was more exhausted than I've been in a long, long time when I finally made it back to my room. I was also dirt-encrusted. We weren't supposed to bring our shoes back but leave them at the temple. Probably needless to say, we still wore our shoes home. And so, as my teacher explained to me, we brought back twelve spirits. One shoe, one spirit. Ek joot, ek bhoot.

Leave your shoes on the stairs

To enter into the auspicious air.

My feet bare find flowers crushed in the dust.

The locks left on the fence now sealed forever by rust

Ward off the spirits and entice my wondering fingers.

Chants push the crowds forward, closer, and singers

Catch nasally melodies with their smokey voices. I fend

Off nasty men while the surging devotees send

Puja sweets to the image, wave smoke over their heads.

I feel connected to the screaming women by the threads

Tied onto the gates and the piles of rice dumped in the streets

For the goats while children nearby beg for something to eat.

On the stairs, leave your shoes

Or bring the spirits back with you.

Maintaining a Sense of Self in Jaipur

One challenge about learning a new language in another country with 33 other students I just met 4 weeks ago is that I have been stripped of myself in so many ways. I don't have the vocabulary yet to talk about much more than daily happenings, food, shopping, Bollywood movies, and religion. This is definitely more of a range than when I arrived in Jaipur at the American Institute of Indian Studies, but it's still frustrating. I'm experiencing so much in the classroom and out in the city that I want to have in depth conversations about, but I feel limited by the fact that I'm supposed to be speaking Hindi or that the people around me haven't known me for long and have very different interests. 

I had one small success today, though! In my weekly literature class we always discuss a Hindi short story that is usually absurdly difficult for my group to comprehend. For the past couple weeks, our conversations have been purely about the plot and the characters. And I have felt like a complete idiot because my contributions have been so limited. I spent two years at College of Charleston studying English literature, so naturally I have a lot more to say about the Hindi pieces than I can actually articulate in Hindi. But today my classmates and I (I have the best group ever) went above and beyond our adhyapak's questions, reaching into the depths of the relationship between American bosses and Indian employees, the generation gap and how it fits into the cultural expectation of respecting one's parents, and the exoticism of India by Westerners. We also dipped some into our English vocabulary, but I was nevertheless excited and proud to be having a meaningful conversation mostly in this language that I still struggle to get my tongue around sometimes. Our teacher wasn't quite as impressed, and at one point, after we diverged off into our world of themes and symbols, he stopped us to repeat his question, "But what does the mom do?" I laughed because laughter is the first answer to language frustration and cultural awkwardness. 

I am feeling trapped by my limited vocabulary, by being a foreign woman in Jaipur, by the program rules and schedules. But it seems okay as long as I can hold onto conversations like the one in my literature class today and as long as I can return to my business of asking questions and challenging ideas. 

Also, I found dark chocolate and a park to read and write and think in, so I feel much more myself again.

He who by virtue of his rank, his actions,

And qualities, effects no useful purpose

Is like a chance-invented word; his birth

Is useless, for he merely bears a name.

--Indian wisdom

Three Videshis Walk Into a Mosque...

Sunday has become my day of independence. In this world I have entered, everything is planned for me. I'm told when and what to eat, how to study Hindi best, how many hours a day I should spend on the Internet, what clothes I should wear, not to take autorickshaws (that's a joke)...I crave independence.

This past Sunday, I ventured into the old city with a few friends (Coco, Luke, Katie, and Kate...although Katie and Kate didn't stick around for the full adventure) with the goal of finding a mosque, a mundir, and an authentic restaurant (perhaps even one with meat...scandalous, right?). We wandered into the chaos and found a shopkeeper who could direct us to the Jama Masjid. He quickly pointed out the white towers straight ahead of us that we should walk toward and then tried to get us to come into his jewelry store. Traveler's advice: gem scams are common in Jaipur..just say no. 

When we got to the mosque, it was fairly deserted and under renovations, but almost immediately, an English speaking shopkeeper appeared to show us around, make sure the fans and lights were on for us, and even have the caretaker take us up to the locked up roof so we could have a view of the city. It was a moment of undeniable white privilege, but I was glad for the cultural exchange and to finally see the inside of a mosque after two weeks of looking at closed doors in Morocco. I hope our interest came across as genuine and that we were able to break away from the stereotype of loud, ignorant Americans. It was beautiful and I was grateful for their hospitality. I hope to return on a Friday or during an adhan (call to prayer). 

Afterwards we wandered for awhile looking for a particular mundir only to discover it closed at noon. I am not sure why but we moved on and discovered an empty mundir for Kalki (another name for Krishna) that was 350 years old. Another random shopkeeper gave us a tour and then took us to his shop where he tried to convince us to buy kurtas, naturally. This is how it goes in India. You just say you'll tell your friends about his store and then quickly leave. Anyway, back at the mundir....the only other people there were the family that lives there. We met a woman and her two sons who were, curiously to me, just living out their lives in the shadow of this beautiful stone mundir. At the mundir they often have yoga and free classes for people in the community. It was a great find, tucked away off the street and wonderfully desolate. 

Hunger struck and we made our way to the Ganesh Restaurant, which Coco had read about online. Our directions were vague and promising: it was located between two tailor shops on the city wall near the New Gate and up a hidden staircase. Miraculously, we actually found it. And it was amazing! We ate such authentic food and it was so refreshing to not be around other videshis. After we ate, we sat on the roof of the city wall and watched the pigeons across the street, enjoying the quiet. It seems so improbable to find a haven of peace in the bustling city where every shopkeeper calls out to me, "Come inside, madam. Come looking. Beautiful kurtas. Best prices. Madam, excuse me!" The sun wasn't unbearably hot and it was a moment of pure relief. Essentially, my favorite moments here are when I find quiet peace. I was sad to dive back into the chaos and attempt to find a rickshawala who wouldn't try to rip us off, but we did anyway. And we were pretty successful, which always feels so good. Just ask for the Indian price in Hindi...that helps a bit. 

Exhaustion struck like the dust storms that precede rain here--unexpected and overwhelming, leaving your eyelids heavy and burning. And I got the best nap ever. 

Happy Sunday to me. 

Week Two: Volunteering (Finding My Niche in Jaipur)

Unlike the first week, this past week flew by! I can't believe it's already Somwaar (that's “Monday" for you non-Hindi speakers). My transition to India has been a strange one, an unexpected one. I spent the first week feeling displaced and uncomfortable and the second week, like clockwork, began with me falling into routine. I woke up Monday morning for class and just accepted that this is my life for the next two months. I think I expected a slightly delusional, lovesick phase where I adored all things Indian and pranced around the surging streets wearing a bindi and brightly colored sarees singing Bollywood songs in a trilling voice. Maybe it's for the best that I avoided that phase...it feels somewhat "othering" as I watch other students in my program exoticize Jaipur.

So just like I would in Charleston, I went to class, did some homework, took some naps, explored, volunteered, looked at cat pictures, ran in a park, and ate bananas with peanut butter (God bless Jiff Extra Crunchy). I felt very directionless upon starting this past week, but I am now feeling a bit more like I belong here. Even if my lactose intolerance is making eating very, very tricky...

Volunteering was the highlight of my week. I went with three other students to a women's center to teach English to the women there for an hour and a half. It was so refreshing! The women there have been in abusive situations and are at this short stay home until a new situation can be worked out. I met about ten women and two children in my first day there, and I got to work really closely with three of them who are about the same age as me. My inner English teacher kicked in right away and it felt so natural to sit there talking with them, letting them teach me just as much as I was teaching them. I used more Hindi trying to explain the seasons, days of the week, and family terms to them than I have in any other situation I've found myself in while here so far. Their faces were so open and ready to smile. They wanted to know all about me and when I first introduced myself, one of the women thought I said my name was "All is well," which stuck for the rest of our time together. It made me smile. 

Language exchange can be a beautiful thing. I only knew a little Hindi and they only knew a little English, but we were learning quickly from one another because we wanted to be able to communicate and get to know one another. It wa a little chaotic because there were four of us Americans sitting at one table all working independently with different women. About halfway through our time there, one of the women was summoned to leave for Pushkar where she was going to a "new situation." She told us in Hindi that she wouldn't be coming back and a couple of the women teared up, sad to see her go. For all the harassment women here face (it's different for videshi and Indian women...अलग-अलग), there seems to be a beautiful community of women, a sisterhood similar to the one I experienced in Morocco. I hope that her new situation is better. The most unsettling part of my time there was when one of the women I was talking with grabbed the Hindi-English dictionary from the table to look up "गाली" which means "abuse." I hope that learning English will be encouraging for them and possibly even a skill they will be able to use in their lives. Mostly I just hope that our friendship is meaningful for them as well as me. 

I am off to go be studious now and learn me some Hindi. More about my adventures will come sooner rather than later, I promise.

All is well out.

Good News from Jaipur: You Can't Get Pancreatitis from Riding in a Rickshaw

This is the hottest I have been in my entire week in India. Even though the sun has gone down and I have two fans blowing on me, heat is emanating from everything--the floor, my clothes, the walls, my bottle of water, the water from the faucet. Everyone who heard I was going to be in Jaipur during June and July immediately warned me about the heat, but I was not as mentally prepared as I should have been. Even my eyeballs are overheated. It's fine.

Last summer I worked at a summer camp and experienced more intense forms of hunger, heat, exhaustion, and Chaco tanlines than I thought I would ever feel again. I was wrong. It's all coming back to me now...

I have been overwhelmed by exhaustion, exploration, traveling, emotions, linguistic breakdown, silly delirium, trying new foods followed by trips to the bathroom--everything I begged of India until I was here living it. Don't get me wrong...I am loving it here! The first few days were disorienting and I spent most of them in a variety of hotels, airplanes, and buses, participating in what the CLS program called "pre-departure and in-country orientation." It provided me with valuable information and a chance to overcome jetlag, but it was mostly an exercise in waiting around. By the time Tuesday rolled around (almost a week after I departed for this intensive language program), I finally went to AIIS for the first time to take my language placement test. I didn't feel like I'd experienced India at all, but people kept asking me (in Hindi, no less) how I was liking India and where in Jaipur I had gone so far. The test we took was so difficult and wiped me completely out. Yet, I was so relieved to finally get out in the city that afternoon! We (some of the other students and I) trekked around Jaipur in the monsoon rain. We found Hindi-English dictionaries at a bookstore and successfully crossed Jaipur streets and roundabouts (not advisable), which was an adrenaline rush to say the least. We also wandered through Raja Park and bought a few kurtas so that we could suffer the heat in brightly printed cotton blends that make us look the tiniest bit more like we belong here. 

It has been a hard week marked by feelings of loneliness at times, happiness at times, and exhaustion always. Learning Hindi at AIIS is indeed intense, but it has been so much fun so far, thanks to my teachers who have us reading dialogues like melodramatic Bollywood actors and a flock of fellow students who are an assortment of characters. People in my class are so much better at speaking Hindi that I am, so it has been humbling. I am here to learn the language, yes, but I also long to talk with the people, learn more about the culture, write fantastic poetry/stories, contemplate deep and meaningful things. I don't ask much of this country or myself...haha. Also, in my time in the classroom so far, I've learned more about the art of embodying language learning than about how to properly use obliques Hindi or the sanskritized word for "excellent." Improving in a language necessitates laughter and courage. The moments when I have no Hindi in my head but attempt to speak anyway without hesitation have been the best. People laugh at me, but it's okay. I just laugh too and accept the fact that I can successfully communicate without being completely correct. The grammar nazi in me is not ready to accept this fact ("NO HINDI FOR YOU!"). 

My favorite moments from this past week haven't taken place in the classroom. One was sitting and talking with my host sisters who are 21 and 23 and were wonderful in openly sharing about their lives. I can't imagine being a 21 year old woman in Jaipur, but I appreciate the complexity and honesty of their stories. I look forward to more! I also loved venturing out to a nearby temple with some of the other students after class on Thursday. The Birla Mundir is an intricate white building surrounded by gardens and overlooking several streets nears my neighborhood. We walked barefoot around the mundir clockwise and took in the carved images and names of various Hindu gods and goddesses. I laughed when we encountered a number of surprising faces engraved alongside the Hindu deities': Socrates, Moses, St. Paul, the Madonna, and Jesus. I never know what to expect, never see it coming when my host mother starts quoting the Lord's Prayer that she learned going to a missionary school growing up. This is why I love this place--it always catches me by surprise. At the temple, I was also scolded by a woman who clapped loudly at me and gestured for me to cover my head. Strangely, I was the only one in my group of friends who were all sporting uncovered heads to get scolded by her. I did the only thing you can do in that moment: bow my head, respectfully say "ji," and cover my head while maintaining a sense of humor. Because nothing is more meaningful than a photo to cherish the sweat stains and squinted smiles, we had a random man take a picture of all of our group in front of the mundir. Good times.

I am hopeful for what next week holds (mostly hoping that it holds either monsoon rains or functioning AC to cool me off). I also have audacious goals of running at a nearby park in a salwar camiz suit and tennis shoes, picking up AbRipperX again, learning to make chapatti, speaking to lots of people in Hindi, seeing Man of Steel dubbed in Hindi, and finding a place to volunteer. You can probably figure out which of these will actually happen. Smiles come from small successes, cups of black coffee (I've only had one in the past week!), and long naps. The next seven weeks are going to be full. But that's why I came to India. 

One last thing, please enjoy the following Punjabi music video I experienced yesterday: http://youtu.be/CI8QZMU6aTM

Until next time, namaste y'all! (What? It's kitschy and ironic. And I like both of those things.)

Things to Do Before Leaving the Country for 8 Weeks

One last day in America...

So naturally, I act like a complete health nut and go for a 4 mile run to the Lincoln Memorial and then eat a pint of blueberries. But I'm realizing these are two things I will not be able to do in the next two months while I'm in Jaipur.  I spent my entire run giving the runners' nod to everyone I passed. Apparently people around here haven't heard of that little courtesy before, so when I at last got one person to not only nod back but also move to the side of the sidewalk so I had room, I practically cheered out loud. Thanks, random guy in a suit, for the reminder that this country is still my home. 

I am about to head to a diner a few blocks away from my hotel for a brunch that will include bacon because it's unlikely I'll get any of that in the next months either. 

It's also unlikely that I'll blog this frequently in the next eight weeks, but hey, I figured everyone would want to know my recommendations for one last day in the States: go for a run to some great American monument, eat excessive amounts of blueberries, and find some good old fashioned bacon in a city where people eat breakfast at cafes with fancy coffees.

See you on the flip side, USA. 

I'm going to India!

I am going to India! Most everyone who knows me is thinking Well, duh right about now... Yes, this post is long overdue. I've known since mid-February that I was a finalist for the Department of State's Critical Language Program to study Hindi in Jaipur, India for the summer. But the process has been so full of false starts and daunting deadlines that, until yesterday when I arrived at the Dulles airport in DC for orientation, it hasn't felt real. 

My transcript was delayed, my visa application was bafflingly intense, a stipend check never arrived, I wandered all over the US's noble capital city in search of my hotel wanting so desperately to give up and go home...but as I sat in a room tonight with the 30ish other people selected to study Hindi at the American Institute of Indian Studies (AIIS, as I have learned to call it) and listened to Assistant Secretary of State Ann Stock talk about challenges, getting out of your comfort zone, and not going to Starbucks, I found myself snuggling into the reality of my summer. 

On Friday, June 14th, I will fly from Dulles to Delhi (via a quick stop in Frankfort, Germany). The travel will take hours upon hours and it will technically be the 16th by the time I am actually on the ground in India. There, I will meet my teachers, take a language placement exam, and continue preparing to embrace both the language and culture of a land I have loved at a distance for two years now. After another orientation in Delhi, we will take a bus to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, where I will primarily be for the rest of the summer. I'll meet my host family and begin life in India. The program lasts 8 weeks and will involve intense Hindi language classes every morning and various other activities (tutoring with a local language partner, cultural excursions, the possible Bollywood dance class) in the afternoons and on weekends. 

Why am I doing this? The real question is how can anyone pass up a free trip to India??? Well, it's been a long journey...I started learning Hindi and about the culture/religions of India two years ago when my mind started to crave a new language. I fell in love with the diversity, the paradoxes, the colors, the smells, the way I felt both surprised and at ease in all that I was learning. I applied for this same scholarship program a year ago and made it to the second round only to be turned down. I wasn't ready. I thought I was, which may be exactly the reason I wasn't. Now, I feel ridiculously unprepared. In the future, I think know I could live in India for awhile or at the very least work with Indian nationals in a different setting. And with the way that my views on service have been changing (shifting away from a "helping" mindset that puts one person at an advantage over another), really learning the language instead of expecting people to meet me where I am...the obnoxious American monoglot. I'm especially interested in working with people who have been marginalized by society, such as women in the sex trade, and I know that to be able to relate to people who have been it in that situation, it is important to know the language. So I'm setting off on a whirlwind adventure of learning and trying new things.

A lot of factors have complicated this summer for me, and it's been more difficult than I could have ever imagined to convince myself that this is what I'm supposed to do this summer. In fact, just a few hours after arriving in DC, I found myself in the bathroom of my hotel room giving myself yet another teary-eyed pep talk. But now that I have met some of my fellow travelers/students/housemates/future friends and the trip to India is starting to solidify in my mind, I feel good. This trip feels good. And in the words of former president George W. Bush, "if it feels good, do it; if it's wrong, blame somebody else."

So I will attempt to keep updating my blog...I make no promises, though. 

India, here I come.

Oceans Always Feel

Rivers never fill the oceans, but oceans always feel the waters reaching deep inside them. I guess they always will. --Jars of Clay and Leigh Nash, "Mirrors & Smoke"

I think too much these days, but probably not about things I should think about (i.e. classes, homework, what in the world I'm going to write my Bachelor's Essay about, whether or not I'll apply to grad school). I made msemen (Moroccan pancakes) for breakfast this morning, which was incredibly time intensive, and as I kneaded and kneaded (the thing about msemen is that they need lots of kneading), I thought and thought. And most of my thoughts returned me to Morocco...naturally...

Msemen with homemade pear apple jam

Last Monday, I was sitting under my favorite tree on the College of Charleston campus for the first time in months, and my lovely friend Rebecca (who is affectionately known as Lil Becca around these parts) happened to walk by. She also happened to stop and call me out of my deep thoughts about why some trees grow up to be so twisted. She had just returned from a mission trip to Haiti over Spring Break, and I was eager to pick her brain. I think a lot about missions because my service with Bonner and the Alternative Break program have really redefined what "mission" looks like for me. Becca has had a similar transformation but for different reasons. And sitting under that tree, we talked for almost half an hour. She was still processing everything at that point, and I had chills because of how much I saw myself in her. I had such similar thoughts when I came back from Morocco. The sudden, unexpected reminder of Morocco actually made me tear up a little (gosh, that's embarrassing), and I looked up at the clouded sky in an attempt to keep the tears from spilling out.

Becca talked about going back to Haiti in the future. She mentioned how she doesn't know if she will ever change the infrastructure of an entire country or if she will make a widespread difference wherever she is. Instead, she said it's enough if she can just change one person's life. It's the same realization I had in Morocco. When I was singing Brett Dennen to Kamal, the most neglected person in the orphanage, I was filled with a knowledge that it was enough for me if I could just bring him joy for a few moments. In fact, I realized by the last day that it was enough for me if I could allow him (and the time with him) to bring me joy or to change me in some way. Good grief! It changed me so much. I recognized thought patterns I had about people with special needs that I detested. There is nothing joyful about hating the way your own brain forms thoughts. There is nothing joyful (or easy) about changing those patterns either. But I've been working on it. I do think differently now about people with special needs. I don't see myself as "normal" anymore and people whose bodies and minds don't work the same way mine does as abnormal/different/"special." I think too about the statistics for child sexual abuse and depression/anxiety: reportedly, 1 in 4 women are sexually abused before they reach 18 and 1 in 4 people live with depression/anxiety. 25% doesn't seem so abnormal to me anymore... What actually feels abnormal is that talking about topics like mental/physical disabilities, sexual abuse, and depression/anxiety is so taboo in our society. Why don't we talk about these things? Why don't we know how to act around people who have experienced/are experiencing them?

I have other thought patterns that I notice now--about race, gender, ethnicity, social class--that I don't like. I know they are products of my culture and my experiences, but I still hope I will be able to change them. It feels like I'm trying to change the tides of an ocean--an impossibility--but why not try?  It was so encouraging to hear Becca voicing some of the same thoughts I've been having about just changing one person's life or just letting herself be changed.

I could end with that overused quote from Mother Teresa about how if you can't feed a hundred people that you should just feed one...but I want to end with oceans. They're all around me here in Charleston and they were just out of each when I was in Rabat and Chefchaouen. People exhort the power of oceans, their stability and consistency. We find solace in their constant motion and the calculability of the tides. We don't like when oceans are unpredictable and produce typhoons, hurricanes. But so often we fail to realize how transient oceans are. You probably never set foot in the same water twice, as rivers are always pumping more water in and stealing water away. Oceans are always changing, and I think they know it even though we fail to realize it.