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.

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!

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. 

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.