August 4, 2009

I think God must smack his forehead…

Posted in Uncategorized at 7:51 pm by shantiyatra

A couple of days ago I was talking to one of the teens from the teen center and she commented that she didn’t think "it was fair that we eat animals because they can’t eat us."  She knew they can eat us, but she meant in the sense that there isn’t a fair fight.  I answered her by saying .. "humans have dominion over the earth, and that is how order is maintained, blah blah blah" She refused to agree with my reasoning and at the end of the conversation I was tired. I was tired of refuting teenage logic that is often presented with the utmost certainty and ignorance.

Later that night, as I was meditating on how annoying teenagers are and how I am sick of my job, I was humbled. I realized that God must experience the same thing except multiplied by milleniums. How many times over the course of history have people spoken their new ideas with arrogance as they believe they’re the first one to ever proclaim such wisdom. He must just look down at earth, smack his forehead sometimes and think, "huh, i never heard THAT one before…"

June 29, 2009

really?

Posted in Uncategorized at 5:19 pm by shantiyatra

For the past month or so, I have spent my two hours of my morning at a local elementary school.  Today I was talking to one of the little buggers who is exceptionally well behaved and friendly.  He seems like he comes from a good home, his mom always kisses him goodbye, and through conversations I’ve learned his parents have taught him to appreciate art and sports.  He has a mohawk which is supposed to be for football (I didn’t know kids play team football in the summer).  His mom teases that he is the only kid on the football field that knocks people over and then asks if their okay as he lends them a hand to get up.  This morning he told me something that really surprised me. 

He told me he was moving.  When I asked him why, he looked at me with his big blue eyes and said, "Because my mom says there are too many (then he mouthed the words) black people."  It really wasn’t the answer I was expecting.  Thoughts raced through my mind…do I address it while the other kids are at the table? is it my place to say anything if the mother chooses to instill this worldview in her child?  how could I appropriately talk to him about it in a way that won’t send the message "you’re mom’s wrong, don’t listen to her"?  Did he mouth those words because he doesn’t agree with it, or because he knows its not something you talk about in public?  Before I could muster a response two other little girls at the table started spouting everything that popped into their little minds and out their mouths.

The moment I began to have faith that people are beyond defining one another by race I am reminded how naive such a view is.  The funny thing about racism is that it is never a matter of bad people are racist and good people aren’t.  There are many well-intentioned, kind-hearted people who hold to such an ugly belief system.  A lot of them may not even believe how much they hold to it or the degree of which it has permeated their mindset.  To me it is a crude viewpoint that we must fight off until its extinction.  I do see the tides of change and generational progress that we continue to make.  I can only hope that this boy flows into the changing tide.

 

June 8, 2009

your mom

Posted in Uncategorized at 4:48 pm by shantiyatra

I hate bumper stickers, but today I saw one that made me laugh.  It was a picture of a fetus with a statement saying, "MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE, YOUR MOM DID".  Now there is nothing funny about abortion, but the fact that I read the bumper sticker in the voice of a "your mom" joke made it entertaining. 

After reading that bumper sticker, I was still thinking about it when Regina Spektor’s new song, "no one laughs at God when…., but God can be funny…" came on the radio.  It made me think, who would want to believe in a god that is in favor of abortion?

reasons to celebrate

Posted in Uncategorized at 4:33 pm by shantiyatra

Saturday I watched two friends celebrate similar, but very different milestones in their life.  I spent the early part of my afternoon at a bridal shower and the latter part of my afternoon at a baby shower.  Both celebrations were held less than 15 miles away from each other, but both were celebrated in completely different worlds. 
 
At the bridal shower I arrived feeling ever so slightly under-dressed, wishing I had worn a skirt.  My friends were wearing dresses that coordinated with the same blue as the color she picked for her wedding.  The place was beautifully decorated with flower bouquets on every table.  I crashed the bride’s maids table because I was one of the youngest people there.  The only other option I had was to sit with the Wenonah moms.  There are two problems with that: 1. I’m not from Wenonah and 2. I’m not a mom.  Once I was assured it was okay to sit with the brides maids, she came in. 

She was completely surprised.  There are not many times in life when people genuinely get to enjoy surprises, so its nice to be a witness when someone does.  They were taking pictures of her and she still didn’t realize it was her shower.  As I watched my friend open her gifts (which took over 2 hours), I wondered if that would ever be me.  I know I have a lot of friends and family who would support me, but what if I married someone from another country and I planned to move there after the wedding?  There would be no room for all those bunt pans and cookie sheets in my suitcase.  I would have to ask everyone to give me money, which is just plain tacky.  It would also be less entertaining than watching someone open gifts. Then I thought what if I did marry someone from around here, could I ever settle into a suburban life?  Basically the reality that I am turning another year older and getting closer to making major life decisions sent my mind reeling. 

 
Then there was the baby shower … I pulled up to a row house with a porch cluttered by teenagers.  When I got out of my car, it took me a moment to spot her.  I hadn’t seen her since the beginning of her second trimester when I went to Choices of the Heart (a crisis pregnancy clinic).   She had just turned sixteen at that time and she was there to get an ultrasound.  She wanted pictures of her unborn child to show her mother in case she tried to convince her to abort upon hearing the news.  She had a completely new hairstyle and her belly was about to burst open. After saying hellos I went into the house where the music was blaring, "we can make a movie, I can get my camera, I’ll put my hands up, watch you while you do me…"  Did I really hear that right?  This was one of a number of baby shower firsts I experienced.  Others that followed were, being the oldest person there, having four males attend (they were gay, but I had still never seen guys at a baby shower), and over an hours worth of bumping with some grinding.  Oh yeah, did I mention that there was a tattoo party happening at the house next door creating an interesting  flow of people coming in, taking food and leaving?

 I already stuck out like a sore thumb, but watching those teenagers dance to sexually explicit songs made me feel completely awkward.  My social strategy was to make conversation with a nine year old girl to distract myself from being uncomfortable.  I stayed for two hours.  At first I thought it would be rude to leave before the gifts were opened, but seeing there were only eight gifts I realized no one was was overly anxious to get to that part.  They were more focused on dancing and making plans for underage drinking parties later that night.  Opening the gifts would only mean that it would be time to leave.  I decided to push my etiquette aside.  I couldn’t bear to watch those boys do the same booty bump dance for another hour.  I gave her a hug, told her congratulations, and drove her friend home.  Once we were in the car, her friend commented, "You was the oldest one there."

I don’t have a profound comment to wrap up the stark contrast between the two parties.  To say the least, it still amazes me that both societies coexist so closely to each other, but rarely collide.

June 2, 2009

i am bina from asam

Posted in Uncategorized at 10:19 pm by shantiyatra

I often drive through Woodbury Heights, New Jersey.  For the most part, it’s your stereotypical suburban neighborhood with a largely white population and middle class incomes.  I went to High School there, I go to church there and I have a number of friends who live in the surrounding area. 
 
A couple weeks ago something changed about my routine drive down Woodbury/Glassboro Road.  I started noticing the name of a street called ASAM AVE.  Now I don’t know who named this street, or what the street is supposed to be named after.  Typically clusters of nearby streets are named with a theme; like tree names, or presidents.  I can’t figure out how ASAM AVE is connected to FAIRVIEW and CLEMENT, but if you know please enlighten me.  No matter what the intentional meaning of this street name it brings to my mind a completely different story. 
 
"i am bina from asam." After one hour of teaching "home row keys" on the computer, this was the first full sentence she wrote.  Bina was fluent in four languages and she was working on English.  I can’t blame her for spelling Assam with one s instead of two.  Bina was living in Dehradun, India at the time I met her, but she was far from her home state of Assam. 
 
I quickly became friends with Bina, and I genuinely appreciated her company.  At the age of 24 Bina didn’t have a high school diploma, but she was by no means dumb.  She was a skilled tailor with an eye for bright colors.  She would make her own clothes after work hours by staying up late or waking up early.  She picked up cake decorating more quickly than the rest of us.  She had street smarts about her.  Bina slept with a knife under her pillow, and she was shrewd with money.  She could bargain most shopkeepers down, and she knew a good buy when she saw it.  I liked going to the market with her because she didn’t pay the white tax shopkeepers often charged on account of my presence.   She wanted to marry a man in the service, so that she would always be provided for.  This was not surprising considering the way she had watched her sisters struggle to get by.
 
She could be tough, but she could be scared.  She would squeel like a piglet if she saw a creepy crawler from the jungle sneak into the room at night.  She hated sleeping alone, and like most of us, the monkeys gave her a reason to hide. 
 
I can still picture Bina sitting in the kitchen with her dark jeans and a faded tweety bird t-shirt on, a thick silver necklace, her long nails painted purple sprinkling spices on a mango pit and then smacking her lips after sucking it clean.  More often I picture her trying on a bright blue kurta and adjusting the collar in the mirror before making last minute adjustments on the sewing machine.  This is the image that comes to mind when I see the words ASAM AVE in white lettering on a green street sign as I drive through Woodbury Heights.   

May 9, 2009

the conversation chemist

Posted in Uncategorized at 10:01 pm by shantiyatra

The conversation chemist is that person who seems to be able to strike up and maintain a dialogue with almost anyone.  It’s that person who you can talk to for five minutes and feel as if you’ve known them for years.  The conversation chemist is friendly, smooth, and charming. Parents, friends, and various communal authority figures are often swoon over this person.  He usually has a lot of acquaintances and she usually inadvertently leads on every socially awkward man that ever crossed her path. The only trouble with the conversation chemist is they can be some of the most difficult people to read.

April 14, 2009

a pillar of salt

Posted in Uncategorized at 8:08 pm by shantiyatra

It’s hard to close a door and never look back.  It seems to  be harder when door closes on a painful experience.  I now have more empathy for Lot’s wife, turning into a pillar of salt for looking back on the destructive city.  No matter how horrible the city was it was still her home, what she knew.  I may never turn into a pillar of salt, but if I keep looking back I’ll crumble too.

April 7, 2009

the danger of the pedestal

Posted in Uncategorized at 4:48 pm by shantiyatra

I sat on the stool with my hands loosely holding on and my legs swinging freely.  My childlike trust kept me from worrying about how high I was off the ground.  This trust was at first enforced when I looked around and saw the others also sitting on stools of similar height.  I knew it was a risk to sit so high, but I never asked to sit up there, I kind of floated up before I realized any better.  Maybe I did ask for it.  After all, I chose to participate.  See, I’m the type of person who dreams about everything.  I keep watching for something good to pass on by and when it comes I grab on.  Taking risks always involves the chance of success or (sometimes and) failure.  This time I had held on tight thinking I knew the risk involved.
 
It took some time, but eventually the reality of danger was evident.  The others became more comfortable with me and I with them.  Despite the differences we learned to understand each other.  Not deeply like a confidant, but there was a shared feeling of uneasyness.   The look in their eyes communicated the stool was not as steady as it appeared.  Their glances warned me they were never sure how long it would stand.  Sure enough, the others began to fall off their stools.  Sometimes they would be picked right back up, and other times they would lie in pain for awhile before they were rescued.  Some were knocked down more often than others.  The ones who learned not to question always stayed on their stools the longest.
 
The danger wasn’t the stools themselves.  It was the leader.  The leader had lifted each one of us up and taught us something unique.  Through this teaching we were instilled with hope.  Hope of a better life for ourselves and others.  We all felt our lives could impact the world with the skill or knowledge we had been given.  The leader built us up to trust them more than anyone in the world.  Once our trust was gained, we were knocked down so far and so hard, there was no one left to trust.  The danger was a feeling of slavery.  I describe it as a feeling, because we didn’t have physical shackles, and we weren’t whipped.  It was emotional slavery enforced by fear and obligation.  The fear of being all alone was worse than staying on that stool where there was still the possibility of others falling with you. 
 
I was one of the last to be knocked off the stool.  It was hard to admit I was really falling.  I had watched the others go through the same process many times before I fell, but I still held onto the possibility it would never happen to me.  At first I tried to ask the leader for help to climb back up the stool, but each time the leader helped me move upward I would be pushed back twice as far.  The others knew better than to help me, and I knew better than to ask for their help.  The outsiders would never believe my testimony held against the leader’s smiling face and outstanding acheivement.  So I chose to walk away.  It was a luxury I could afford far more easily than any of the others.  I didn’t have a family to provide for, or a career to risk.  For me there would always be more sturdy stools accompanied by a better leader. 

April 1, 2009

summa lovin

Posted in Uncategorized at 7:06 pm by shantiyatra

3 weddings this summer.  Two long awaited and one unexpected.  I will probably cry at two of them (one being the unexpected).  It gets me every time, seeing two people I know well who love each other commit their lives to working it out together.  If you know me this may sound strange, but I have also left every wedding thankful it was not me tying the knot.  I’m more than okay with the reality that I have at least a few years before thats me.  After all it’s a long road to walk, and running just wears you out.

February 24, 2009

all that glitters is not gold

Posted in Health and wellness at 1:00 am by shantiyatra

I had delayed my flight by two weeks and waited with baited breath for the proper ring size to arrive. We called the jeweller a number of times to ensure they honored the time commitment. One thing I learned in India is a yes can often mean no and one month can really mean six weeks. Our saleswoman, Joti, brought out the ring. It was four sizes smaller than what I ordered. My dissatisfaction was evident and my temper was boiling.

Joti: Don’t worry mam we will resize another ring today.
Him: Are you sure you’ll be okay with that imperfection for the rest of your life?
Me: I guess I have no other choice at this point.

"All That Glitters is Not Gold" was the headline posted behind Joti as she rung us up for our purchase of Rs. 14,000. The newspaper headline was referring to gold scams in India. The bulletin board in the shop was assuring me the quality of the product I was buying. I don’t know much about gold or diamonds, but I liked the look of the ring. The business was an enterprise of TATA, their shop was literally the classiest of its kind in town; and so, I felt like I could trust that their product was the level quality they promised.

I had four days left of my trip to uncomfortably "show off" the ring. With the engagement ceremony already passed, others were eager to see it also. Some commented on it’s weight, other’s noted its size (I have significantly larger hands than most Indian women), and some commented on the diamond. Politely I refused to tell the price. I left the country with much assurance from the women around me that I was truly fortunate and blessed.

All that glitters is not gold, just as all that is romantic is not true beauty. The headline turned out to be a prophetic word of caution. A little over a month later that ring was shipped back across the Atlantic for the small fee of $14 USD. I may never know if it reached the intended recipient. Frankly, I wouldn’t be concerned if it is currently on the finger of a dishonest postman’s wife.

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