You are warm,
We are cold.
You are free,
We have been sold
You take your fill,
We wait to be fed.
You sleep in peace,
We fear to wake up dead.
You celebrate Christmas,
But we celebrate only Christ.
You are unhappy with gifts,
As we pray for daily rice.
So Merry Christmas,
We hope that you are well.
Heaven on earth to you,
From those in earth’s own hell.
It’s almost Christmas. I am pretty sure that I have no job for next year, and my career plan gets reshaped about every 3 days. One of my good friends here is about to get married and like lemmings it seem 2 more are following suit in the next few months. By the time I leave I will be the only single male at my site. Mostly though I have been alone now in my own world for almost 100 days. I am half way round the globe in a place that has given me the clarity to see the world without sheltered eyes.
Tonight as I went home by bus, I waited in the dark because of the power cuts. As we approached the station there were about ten police officers waiting for something apparently. Not a day goes by that I don’t see someone suffering. I am never unsafe or threatened but if I were them, I would beat the ever-living snot out of me. Not cause I did anything, but for all the things I stand for.
So as I sit here having a crisis of my person, career, and society, I am doing a lot of soul searching. Just know that for every one thing I criticize about the world, I am working myself over the coals 10x over. I don’t mean to upset anyone; I am just trying to find a higher meaning for in life. I could use feedback on this one. Break throughs don’t come easy when you argue stuff back and forth in your own head. In fact sometimes I feel I am closer to crazy than to a better life for all.
Anyway, Peace and Love to all you guys.
Before I left for India, I was sitting in Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago talking with a bunch of other fellow volunteers. We had just all watched a movie about the conditions the average person faces in Jamaica, how rough it is on them being a banana republic. And we were talking about why this all was and what could be done. Is it right that rural farmers can’t compete for a livable salary in their own lands against subsidized farmers from the U.S.?
So like I usually do, I let the conversation lead itself. But after awhile I felt the need to interrupt. They were talking about how there were ways to change the system, like fair trade coffee. That’s where the farmer is paid the amount that should be paid for their work rather than the market price that is placed for maximum profit by the middleman. The consumer then gets to drink his or her coffee with a clear head and conscious. But to me, this is just a trend. In the end does anyone really give a flip about some Rwandan coffee farmer? My point was that when push comes to shove, no one will spend that extra fifty cents on coffee anymore. They will need it for gas, or that extra-sized cola, or to have some other little extra. Will these farmers, like every other cause, die as people lose interest? How’s Darfur again? It seems that no one really cares about how to take care of each other. Sure we talk a big game, but when push comes to shove, what are we willing to lay on the line so that the other can live life, not even mentioning a respectable one?
My fellows were outraged. How could I have so little faith in humanity? How could I just look to the negative and never the positive? And you know what the truth is, I pray to God that I am proved wrong, that people really do give a flip for those coffee growers, that people are really in solitude with the women of Darfur. Realistically I give it a 1 in a billion. I don’t believe in miracles, but I believe in people.
Never give up. Never surrender.
I know where do I get off saying something like that. I am 22 years old and barely even into life. How can I expect anyone else to never compromise on things? I am so young as not to really even know what life is. After all, compromise is how the world gets round. But I would say that there are things to compromise on, and things that should never be watered down and exchanged.
In my life I have had many dreams and many hopes. Chances are by the end of my lifetime I will have let every single one of them go just as I have already began to do. They were just impossibilities; thank God I got the sense to realize that with age. But when I see the end of my life in fifty years, I wonder what I will look back upon. A graveyard of dreams dismissed as impossibilities. Hopes that were never fought for, only settled upon.
I cannot believe how many people I met that told me that they always wished that they had done something like I am doing. Going to India or helping people? I do not know what they wished for, but I can’t help but wonder what I will wish for when I grow to a ripe old age?
Since I was a little boy, I have always felt for other people and their pain. Sometimes I caused more pain than I felt for. Looking back on it, I wish I had been kinder. There are too many people in the world that couldn’t give a damn about the other. I pray to God that I do not become one of them. I also pray to God that I can make a difference in the world.
Flying high at 40,000 ft is one way to get a reality check. From that height the world is a blur of lights on the pitch black of the ocean. You are one in a billion. Odds so bad that you might as well just give up and go home before you start. No sense in it. And that’s where it all starts, or in this case it all stops. People go home, taking their dreams with them.
At the end of my life I am not sure if I am going to have to stand judgment before an almighty, but being as critical as I am, I know sure as daylight that I will have to stand judgment in front of myself. And I know that my 80-year-old self is going to be quite angry if 25-year-old Buco tells him that it just didn’t look like it was going to work out.
In my life I want one less person to go home hungry. I want one less person to be die of curable diseases. I want people to hope and to actually believe in humanity rather than just paying lip service. I want peace. I want love. One day I will be no more. And I have no idea where I am headed after that. But I know what I believe in here.
Every evening the power cuts out for about thirty minutes. The time always changes depending on the week, but it always comes with such precision that you can set you clocks by it. In fact, I usually do. This past week it came in the midst of dinner. No problem. Blind School has a generator just for this reason. Except, this time the generator never came on.
What do I do? I know that I am almost finished eating, but I can’t really leave the table. There are a mess of chairs and tables in the way to the washing sink, not to mention dozens of blind children walking around. What? Blind students? As I sit patiently in the dark waiting for some sort of light, the typical sounds of the school continue. I have stopped in a world that has kept moving.
They are still walking around. They are doing their dishes. They are finding empty spots at the sink and washing their hands. They are managing in a world that is utterly foreign to me, a world that is their own. I have been completely incapacitated, rendered useless when I am forced to face the same conditions that my students overcome daily. The lights came back on soon enough so no worries. I finished the food on my plate, washed, and then went to my room as I always do. But as I lay in bed, it started to occur to me what it takes to become “normal” when denied the gift of sight.
Sudie was telling me about another time that the power went out when she was staying at Blind School. She was staying the night at the women’s hostel for a wedding and she and a teacher who is blind were heading back to their room. But as they were going, the power went out. No lights and no way to get back to their room. The teacher she was walking with became her guide. For years she had walked the same path in the dark. How easily do we take sight for granted?
During physical education class, my friend and fellow teacher Sagu will ring a bell that the students are to run to. The ground is flat and even so there is almost no chance of tripping. I know that, but do the students? Every step is a leap of faith and trust. What if the ground is uneven, or there is something in the path. Some of the students apparently share my concern. They run with their hands in front of them and take cautious steps. Others are bolder than I will ever be. Full till they plow towards the bell. Some can see slightly which encourages their speed, but some can not at all. If only I could have faith and trust like that?
There are so many things to learn from life. The students that I am supposed to be teaching more often than not impart greater knowledge to me than I will ever be able to tell them. When I first came to Blind School, I had no idea what to expect. In the U.S., I don’t even know a Blind person. Braille on the wall is something to be pronounced as you read the English on the door. There is so much to learn, and my students are such greater people than I will ever be. (But don’t tell them that. They already cut-up with me too much in class as is.)
Charles Dickenson had it right when he invented Scrooge; and while it saddens me to admit it, I might be becoming one. Sure I am still grinning and even smiling here all the time, but that won’t stop me from raining on your Christmas parade.
For two weeks prior to Thanksgiving my friend and fellow volunteer Sudie was singing Christmas carols. Humbug, Thanksgiving hasn’t even come yet. She still sang them, just as she still sings them. In fact everyone has been singing them. We Wish You A Merry Christmas seems the most popular but they are all pretty much lame. See, clearly I am a Scrooge.
But it’s not like I don’t like people being happy like Mr. Dickenson’s character. I just don’t see the essence of Christmas in a lot of this. What in the world is Christmas anyway? Little 8lb 4ounce baby Jesus was born into this world over two thousand years ago. Maybe a little strange, and perhaps heretical, but why is that still a big deal?
Apparently, Christmas is a celebration of the Savior coming into the world. He did this so He could be killed a few years later as atonement for our sins. But that is not all there is to Christmas. Apparently when He left, He said he would be back. Something about judging the living and the dead. Something that I am not always too sure I want to see. Christmas is also a celebration of that. The hope that Jesus is coming back, that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.
Lately, as people go singing We Wish You Blah blah blah, I find myself singing a song called Better Days. It’s a dumb song by Goo Goo Dolls that got stuck in my head three years ago at camp and has since never left. But to me, it is Christmas. “So you ask me what I want this year, let me make this good and clear, just the chance that maybe we’ll find better days.”
I just don’t get Christmas. I just don’t get it. I know I sound like Scrooge, but it seems to all just be Humbug. How is the way we celebrate Christmas in anyway a tribute to that little Guy? I read today in the local paper that there are over 4 billion starving people in the world today and that is guesstimated to increase by the United Nations.
The other Christmas song that has been flowing through my head is by John Lennon. “So this is Christmas and what have we done, another year over, a new one just begun.” It’s one of those peace era songs that talks about ending wars and stuff. If only we could, or if only we would. Four billion people. It makes me cry and I can’t even imagine. So this is Christmas.
So it’s not like I don’t want people to be happy, or sing, or enjoy the blessings that we have been given in life. As bad as Sudie sings, I still hope she sings. But with everything that has been given to us, I hope that we don’t forsake what Christmas is. So while I may sound like Scrooge, I don’t want to rain on your Christmas parade, but man, 4 billion people.
When will we see people as people? When will we see them not for what they have, produce, or can generate, but for their inherent humanity? When will we see people as people?
My friend Shamir is a shopkeeper down the road. When I go and see him, he asks me about how I am doing and things. The other night I was apparently walking with a slight limp. I didn’t notice, but he did. I ask about his family and how he is. If I am sitting at the bus stop and he has no customers, he comes and sits too. Here, to Shamir, I am a person before a customer. In fact I buy very little over all so I am on most days not even a customer at all. We just talk.
The second week that I got here, some of the braver high school girls (I was still scary at the time because I was so new and the first volunteer here) came up to me and asked me what I thought was the biggest problem for blind people. What is the biggest problem for blind people? They are seen as blind before they are seen as people, and that’s if they are seen as people. However, they have it better off than most differently-abled groups. Society looks at some groups such as mentally challenged and those with deformities as subhuman a lot of the time. They are something that is a burden to society and probably more fit for a “Modest Proposal” than for a social life. They are not seen as people.
Increasingly people are viewed solely by what they can do, and what they can make. If someone can’t offer anything to you, what good are they? People who can offer less are viewed as less. Their humanity is stripped from them faster than they can learn to overcome and master the bodies that God gave them. I would argue that in this way society is stripping itself of humanity.
In a few weeks Christmas will come. In a time that people are supposed to love and care for each other, people will be utterly consumed with buying some piece of stuff to express their love. Gone it seems are the days that you could wish someone a Merry Christmas, tell them that you love them, and it meant more than any present you could ever hope to find on store shelves. Instead people will be out in traffic, honking, swerving, swearing. Instead of spending time with loved ones they will be walking beelines through malls from now till Christmas. They will be frustrated, grabbing for the last perfect Christmas gift, perhaps knocking each other down.
Have you ever thought of that shopkeeper up the street? Yes, the mall is open four extra hours a day but what does that mean to him. I bet he makes an extra buck, which I am sure he needs at Christmas time more than those extra hours with loved ones. What are we valuing these days? Christmas is supposed to be about the other, about the hope that is to come. Instead it is the meanest time of year. Thank goodness Jesus is coming because God help anyone who steps outside their door these next few weeks.
What’s truly saddening to me is that over the next two months the suicide rate will spike dramatically up. This is because at Christmas time, the love of Christmas is forgotten. Everyone is stressed to the max with earning and spending money. No one has time for niceties, we’re shopping. There is no time that needs more kind words than Christmas. The time that they should be at an all time high, they are at a low. People forget to see people as people. They see them only by what they have, produce, or can generate. They do not see as people. When will we see people as people? Maybe this Christmas?
It seems normal this time of year to wish for peace on earth and goodwill towards men, and if you ask my women’s studies friend she would probably tell you women too. That’s fine by me. I am all for peace for everyone especially around Christmas. Physical peace, mental peace, couldn’t we all use more peace in our lives, in our world?
So less than two weeks ago, some guys who were quite upset with the world decided to boat down into India with some explosives, grenades, a few high-powered assault rifles, and a whole lot of ammo. Then they went to work on things in the city of Mumbai, targeting crowds, landmarks, and euro-americans creating chaos and terror that raged the city for several days. Basically, it was three days of hell for those who live in or around Mumbai.
Before that, people were tossing backpacks of explosives into crowded markets in some of India’s more northern cities. I would say that’s one way to cut down on Christmas shoppers, but a joke seems a little out of place here, plus only 3% of the population celebrates Christmas, so perhaps self restraint is in order.
With all that’s going on right now, you are probably thinking about my safety. That maybe I should be on a plane home, that things are unsafe here. After all who knows where the next group of pissed-offed terrorists could attack?
I am safe here and there are several reasons why that is so. But for now, I will just assure you I am safe. However, it is really interesting how we pray for peace, but when things get dicey, people continue to pray, but from a little farther away. We all want peace, but at what cost? It’s so easy to hope, and pray, and wish for peace. Should not God’s love stretch more intensely to people under fire? Where is the peace this Christmas for those in Mumbai? Where is the peace this year for those in Gaza? Where is the peace for everyone that so desperately craves for it so much more than any half hearted Christmas remark?
Some of my family and friends were glad that I did not end up in Palestine this year and after being in India, I am too. However, we have our different reasons. There are terrorists there in Palestine. Hah. There are terrorists here too.
In 1992, Rwanda was abandoned by its Belgian UN peacekeepers because things got too dicey leaving the country with only a handful of Ghanaian soldiers under UN command to restore the order. When things get rough, why do we insist on leaving, on protecting only our own? I only pick at the Belgians for the sake of my friend Claire back home, but the point is the same. Where do are values go when things get hairy? Where does the wish, the praying, the hope for peace go? Home?So as you greet your neighbor this Christmas, I hope you wish him peace and prosperity. Wish him a better world to come, one that is peaceful and hopeful and where all men are neighbors. Wish him whole heartily. But when you say it, mean it. And not just for him, but to all your neighbors, even the ones on the other side of the world. The ones that so desperately crave for it all the time, not just at Christmas. Perhaps that’s the hope of the season. It is for me. Peace and Love to you all.
How many of you have ever tried to buy your way out of trouble? Seriously, who has ever turned to their pissed off wife and said as you fumble out your wallet, “Now honey, how much is this one going to cost me?” “For serious, maybe 10 bucks for not taking out the trash, and what honey, $3 more for tracking muddy shoes in again.” “I am sorry honey I can’t hear from the other side of that door YOU JUST SLAMMED IN MY FACE.”
Love isn’t just something you can throw money at. You can’t say you’re sorry with a checkbook. There are just some things in life can’t be bought and sold. For instance when Mother Theresa was alive she talked of how in many ways loneliness is a worst poverty than hunger. A few meals make a hungry man whole again. Perhaps some rice and water bought with a handful of rupees. But how much does a friend cost? There just arn’t some things money can’t buy.
Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely things to buy. A radio, a TV, maybe some internet. There are many things to buy to distract ourselves, but is anyone happy with them? Do they really replace the desire to love and to be loved that is at the core of each one of us? Do they replace real true agape? In a world that is aching for love then, why are we so quick to pull out our checkbooks? Will they really solve anything?
Lately I have been thinking a lot about the homeless men who ask me for money on the street. The faces always change, but the expression on it doesn’t. It is the same in America as it is here. Look at it the next time you drive off the highway. My friend and I here wonder what as Christians we are called to do in response. But I think that this goes well beyond that. What are we called to do as fellow human beings?
Maybe this homeless man is just faking. Maybe they are all faking. I bet he has a college degree and goes home to a nice house, and that his wife is so proud to see him. “How you doing honey?” “Rough day at work?” “Man, look at all this money.” “You sure tricked them today.” “Oh, you wore the extra smelly shirt today, Good Call.” Do people really think that they day in and out fake being homeless? That they adorn their worst clothes and go fake it all day on the streets?
Or well, I bet this man is just going to waste it. He is going to go buy alcohol or drugs or something. Wouldn’t you? Honestly, if you had no home to go home to, if you had no loved ones, and had been yelled/honked at all day, what would you do at the end of the day? I would try to forget it too. Its not like he can go buy stock options, and the nearest thing to a bank is a shoe. Even in today’s economic situation, banks, believe it or not, are more secure and pay a higher interest rate than shoes.
So what are we called to do as fellow humans? Do we just look at these men as human garbage? Do we dismiss our guilt inside by telling ourselves that he is faking, or that he is going to waste it? Where is the love? What are we called to do?
A dollar today will make his life a little easier today. But what about tomorrow? Archbishop Oscar Romero before he was assassinated once said, “When I give them food, you tell me that I am great, but when I ask why they are starving, you condemn me as a communist.” Why are there homeless men on the streets of The largest and The oldest democracy? Why are there men starving so? So as you drive by a homeless man, give him what you have in your pocket if you feel it is right. But I do not believe that this is the Christian or the human response. Until we start acting and asking ourselves why there are homeless men, why there are people hungry and lonely on the streets, nothing will change. Just giving money won’t make it go away. You can’t just write a check. It’s going to take a lot of love and you can’t buy love.
I have two thoughts for today, 11/25/08. The first is I think I understand why Jesus picked fishermen. The second is I wonder if He ever got tired of people touching and following Him. But here are only my thoughts on the first.
Yesterday, I spent the better part of the day untangling a long piece of rope that clearly had not been untangled in years. Let’s just say that it took all morning. It brought back not so distant memories of sitting on a rocking boat picking knots out of a fishing line. All the time you are praying the opposite of what you had been, that nothing bites, at least for now. And as seasickness takes its toll, you can’t figure out if your frustration is helping get out the knots, or helping put them back in, but you know that it is nevertheless there. Oh, the fond memories of life.
It takes a certain amount of patience and determination to “mend nets.” The more it upsets you, the longer it takes to undo. It also isn’t pleasant to talk to a grumpy knot picker. I can remember numerous occasions when I snapped at even the most well meant remarks while try to untangle line. Such people I would not think would last long in the fishing industry, even in Jesus’ day.
But that is not all. Today, if you go fishing, you grab a pole, some bait, and Huckfin it on out with your pants nicely rolled up. You can go with a buddy, and you can bring some beers, but really to each their own. However back then it wasn’t a walk in the woods. As I watch fisher folk here tirelessly work their nets, I realize that it isn’t for fun, that it isn’t easy, and it isn’t something that you can do solo. To fish and to catch, you have to work together. Not only do many hands make light work, but if you are a fisherman yourself you know that when you catch, you catch big. Fishermen who tell good “got away stories” don’t have food on the table to tell it over. It’s all or none. If you catch big, you share with your fellows, just as they shared with you the days it got away.
So I think that’s why Jesus picked so many fisher people. Have you ever noticed that the closer you get to the Gulf in South Louisiana, the nicer people get? Brings back a memory of some old Cajun French lady who gave me a buck because, from what I could make of it, I reminded her of her son casting my cast net. Fishing people are just kind like that, you know.
Today is the first day that I have logged on to my blog in apparently a long time. In case you were worried, I am not dead. I am very much in a period of transition. I have been here several months and settled into my site. The traveler side of me is fading away as I embrace my commitment to serve.
I am moving blog sites from travelblogs, seeing as I am not so much a traveler.
All this has not really been helped by a busy schedule and my uncanny ability to procrastinate. If you did not get my August/September newsletter please contact me.
Until then I am writing and stockpiling thoughts and reflections here, but not yet on the web. They should come in a wave when I can find my way and time.
Peace and LOVE, and I hope all of you are well. Thanks for supporting me. Honestly, sincerely, thanks for supporting me.
I am moving blog sites from travelblogs, seeing as I am not so much a traveler.
All this has not really been helped by a busy schedule and my uncanny ability to procrastinate. If you did not get my August/September newsletter please contact me.
Until then I am writing and stockpiling thoughts and reflections here, but not yet on the web. They should come in a wave when I can find my way and time.
Peace and LOVE, and I hope all of you are well. Thanks for supporting me. Honestly, sincerely, thanks for supporting me.
Growing up, prudence told you to take it easy. It taught you that certain things can hurt you and that every decision should be assessed with caution. Avoid things that could be dangerous. Don’t do things that might harm you, err on the side of safety always. I am not so sure I buy into this anymore.
Recently I was reading a book that stated that we all die and the destination is the same. Go figure. We can tiptoe through life trying to disturb others as little as possible or we can go dancing and singing. Either way, in the end we are all going.
Yesterday, I had the pleasure of getting an inch and a half shot in the buttocks. If you have ever wanted to watch a 22 year old guy whimper, sadly you missed your chance. I went to the doctor because the day before I had sharp stabbing pain in my stomach that only got worse throughout the sleepless night. In the morning when I woke, it was hurting to move, so to the doctor I went.
So why do I mention that? The doctor told me that I probably had some sort of food poisoning. Since I have arrived, I have disregarded almost every single food related rule that I was given. Do not drink the tap water yet I use it daily for the brushing and rinsing of my teeth. Do not drink juice, especially fruits that do not have the skin removed first. However, I really am partial to grape. Try not to eat at places that seem sketchy. I wonder if this includes a lukewarm egg filled pastry at a bus station. I guess those can all be chalked up alongside don’t pop curbs on your bicycle. Don’t ride on the back of a jeep’s bumper. Don’t ride several people on one motorcycle. Don’t do this or that. Please tiptoe through life.
I am not saying to risk everything for worthless thrills, but I am saying that there are some things that should not be tiptoed passed. There should be a balance. If you constantly err on the side of caution and fear, you may not get hurt. This is what we were all taught as children. The flip side of the coin though is that you may never live. There are some things that are worth living for, risking for, and some things worth dying for.
One of my friends here wants to go skydiving at some point in her life. “Would I go?” she asked. There are some things worth living for. This is not one of them. Yet, these days I find myself pursuing things that are not the safe option. I used to want to be a fireman. Now I don’t quite know. Something about living for a higher cause. Even teachers these days need a different color Kevlar vest for each day of the school week.
On the other hand, Indian food is definitely not worth dying for. It is spicy and good, but not something so worthy of a sacrifice. However, despite some of my advisors’ advice, I will continue to eat outside Blind School’s walls. To give in to fear of another bout of stomach pain would only lesson my experience. How can I enjoy India, or life, if I am constantly worried about everything that can harm me? There is a wonderful world full of sharp pointy things, fast moving buses, and some really bad eggs. There are ways to minimize injury, but if you step foot outside your door, one day you will eat a bad egg. Go outside anyway.
I, for one, will probably not take eggs at the bus station anymore. I will start holding on as I ride a motorcycle. I will try to spit more of the toothpaste water out, rather than swallowing. I will stop holding my bus fare in my mouth as I adjust my wallet. But I will still step outside my door. I will still take juice, and curry, and everything else that rocks my socks. Chances are that I will get sick again. I will find a pointy object, but it’s still a wonderful world.
First of all, I would like to thank my father and mother for getting me a train set when I was little. Nothing is like learning electricity by shaving wires and shocking yourself on some live tracks. I also can not leave out all the skills that I learned in Boy Scouts as well as the cat-like curiosity that I acquired there. I would like to thank my brothers for many-a-times, I am sure. I am also sure that there are many others that helped me on this one, but they will be unsung comrades in my brilliance last night. Perhaps you folks at NOAH should be recognized as well.
Last night I discovered that my mosquito plug in coil was not working, and probably has not worked since I arrived. So while each night as I tossed and turned swatting, I took comfort in the peaceful red glow reassuring me that my repellant was functioning properly. But after a particularly intense night, I decided that I was going to double check. After dismantling the piece, I found that the heater had long since fried itself, that the light was on a separate circuit, that the peaceful red glow was a lie.
I soon located the other coil that I had set aside long ago. The plug was too narrow for the outlet, but nothing a little prying with my knife couldn’t fix. I am sure, that unlike U.S. plugs, size doesn’t matter. (This actually turned out to be true, thank God.) After ramming it into the outlet, the light came on, but then flickered and went out. With night coming on, I was determined. However two screws stood in my way. Nothing my pocket knife can’t handle though. Upon carving out the screws, I slit my finger open, but with a lick of the tongue, my finger was good to go. This should have been an omen to stop there.
I however was trained by the best, BSA. After popping off the top, I was determined to find the problem. But there was no problem to be seen. All the wiring looked good. The switch is on. Maybe there is no current coming through. I can just take my pocket knife and test the current. If it sparks a little, I will know that that is not the problem. All I have to say is clearly it wasn’t.
In America, electricity flows through the walls at about 110volts. I am sure enough to make a pretty spark. However the 240volt brilliance that is seared into my mind as well as into my pocket knife will not easily be forgotten. With a blast of light, the power blew, and my knife welded itself to the wall. With a quick jerk in the dark it was over.
I am sure my parents will be glad to know that I am safe. Assure them that I am taking the utmost care, at least as much as usual. I am myself at least reassured; my guardian angel clearly came with me to India.
In America, there is always something occupying us. When you come home from work, there is the TV, or the internet, and just so you don’t get bored in the car, there is a radio. There is always something going on, some distraction to keep our attention, and yet so little time to think.
Here, in a foreign land, in a foreign world, there is relatively little to distract you from anything. Amusement comes in the form of feeding ants in the corner of the room to see if they grow. It leaves you with nothing but time to contemplate every thought that has gone unprocessed in the years of being constantly occupied. It gives you time to think; indeed that is one of the reasons that I came to India.
But after months of thinking, what else is there to do? How wonderful would it be to have a conversation with another human being rather than the back and forth rationale that has been occurring in my head that slowly seems less so.
However, it is much easier to shy away from conversations. As someone sits eagerly next to you on the bus, you pray to God that he doesn’t start up some awkward exchange of information. Do you really care where he is from as he does his best to stumble out broken English? How far is it to the stop again?
After much reflection, I suppose that it is just another duality of man. People suffer from loneliness because no one wants to go out and meet new friends. In fact so much so, that often the first question asked upon an invitation somewhere is, “Well, who else is going?” There is a mental block. If you do not know anyone, how will you have a good time? How can I sit in my room at night, lonely and sick of it, and yet during the day shy from every single kind-hearted person who wishes to befriend me?
In life, people sit in loneliness rather than take the chance that they may not have a good time. In a world that was utterly foreign, I am finding friends in the most unusual places and it is awesome. I was forced into that. In America I don’t think I would have. I would have asked, “Well, who else is going?” Oh, I think I will just sit in my living room bored as dirt instead.
As grand as the world is, I do not know everyone in it. In fact I couldn’t tell you half the names of the students at my school. What I can tell you is that there are about a hundred smiling faces glad to see me in the evening. I can tell you that they are wonderful and I can tell you that while it wasn’t and isn’t always easy, I am glad that I left my door. I can only hope to do the same upon return.
Every time that I walk down the street, beggars look at me a little more expectedly. They see that I am white, and like all white people, I must be loaded. As I ride the train from Kottayam to Aluva, a seemly nomadic family stops and plays music for just Sudie and me. They want us to give them something, anything to make their lives a little better.
As I look into there faces, I do not know if I should feel ashamed. I do not know if it is right to give them the last bit of money in my pocket for that month. What is right? As she is ushered away, I can’t help but wonder if I have just stared Jesus in the face and refused him. Go and eat, sure, but I gave them nothing for their bellies; Nothing for their daily bread.
I tell myself with every person that I pass, that I am not here to give charity, that my motives run deeper. The parable goes that if you give a man a fish, he eats a day. If you teach that man to fish, he can eat the rest of his life. I am here to teach. I tell myself that to give handouts would make that less effective. I would be seen as a source of charity, and not a proponent of change. But as I listen to myself, it sounds like a cop-out. I swear that it is not.
In America, when you are driving in your car, you can see homeless men by the edge of the interstate. Often they are asking for money. For most people it is difficult to look these men in their eyes. They either lock their vision straight ahead or perhaps fiddle with the radio, or make a cell phone call. Why is it difficult to look at these people?
Maybe you do. Maybe you see him and get so uncomfortable that you reach into your wallet and slip a dollar out of a cracked window. He smiles and says “God bless you.” Inside you feel better. But as you drive away feeling comforted, he still is there. He has a dollar, but what about tomorrow? Where was the love? I am very discomforted by the teachings of the Christian faith. As a person with means, am I called to do more?
When I give money to a beggar on the street, I announce to the world that this man is beneath me. As he sits on the edge of the street, he has no other means to survive than the pity of a passing stranger. I do not pity these hobos and beggars on Indian streets the same way that I do not pity those on American streets.
To pity is to shame. It is degrading to scrape your existence from the streets. Instead of pity there should be empathy. There should be compassion. That is love, to feel a common pain from a singular hurt.
To give a dollar is to take pity. Out of a feeling of guilt, you reach into your pocket and give whatever you have ringing around in there. It comes not from compassion but compulsion. As you walk away, the guilt subsides. Life is better, until tomorrow when again he lacks daily bread. When you give him a fish he eats for a day. You can not feed every man, and this is what I believe we are called to do. When you teach a man to fish, he may eat for the rest of his life, but there is more to that than this. We are called to love.
We are not told to provide for everyone; though the day hunger is rid from the world will be a beautiful day indeed. Instead we are called to love each other as ourselves. If you slip some coins out to satisfy your guilt, it was not there. If you teach, but do not love everyone, it is not there. Only when you see this man as a brother, or a son, or loved one, is it there. Only when you see these people as Christ.
But where was He going with this anyway? Just give Him a dollar and maybe He will go away.
There is a word in Malayalam that is often used in reference to people of Anglo-European descent. The word is saip. If you have been reading the other YAV’s blogs, I think that the usage of this word and its female counterpart has been thoroughly discussed, so much so that I was not going to write on it. But this morning I was sitting at the table and the senior music teacher came up behind me and addressed me as saip. This is a word that hurts, or at least it hurts me, so I told him that. He is blind so he could not see the pain in my face. Like so many others, they do not know the pain that this word causes me.
A basic definition of the word saip is a mispronunciation of the Hindi word sahib, meaning lord or master. The non-Hindi speaking people during British rule could not properly say the word sahib, so the British were referred to as saips. With the withdraw of the British after a long struggle for independence, the term came to refer to all peoples of Anglo-European descent.
Saip however is not just another word for a white person. It carries with it a certain connotation. It’s rooted in the hatred of colonialism and in present day neocolonialism. Saips are sirs. They are those who come to India with money, buying and spending, reinforcing the prejudice that all Anglo-Europeans are rich, while they in turn come here with the prejudice that all Indians are poor. They have come to save the poor little Indians, and to have a goodtime doing it. They do not see that Indians do not need to be saved, and if they do it will be by capable Indian hands and not pity charity.
I have talked to several people about the word saip, and what it means. Some see it as just another word for a white person. Others have told me that it is used more from ignorance than from the desire to cause hurt. Other times it is used as a way to insult. I think in my conversations here I have come to realize that saip is not always a hurtful word in itself, but is intensely so in context.
There is an English word similar to the word saip: Negro. Negro is derived from the same word as black; however it is not another word for a black man. It is offensive because of what it refers to. The word Negro references a very unequal time. It dredges into history when black people were not even second class citizens, but only consider 3/5ths a man and had no vote. It is a term that is used to remember these times and to shame the person for it. It evokes the racism of the past into the present. People still use this word with no particular hate, perhaps out of ignorance, but it still refers to a lesser point in history. However the word is also used as a weighty slur, meant to demoralize and reduce a person of color.
Walking one day with my Indian high school friend, we passed a group of college age students. Under their breath one muttered the word saip. I was hurt. Saip has its roots in colonialism, colonialism that was not mine. Even today, I am ashamed of neocolonialism. I am for building peoples up for a better life for all, not the domination of some for others benefit. So when he called me saip, it was not another word for white person, but was deeply rooted in pain that colonialism has caused. This is not who I am.
It overjoyed me to have my friend turn around and yell at him. It was something that I did not expect and by the look on the college students’ faces, I don’t think they expected either. It was not an Indian defending a colonialist, but a friend helping a friend. Just because you are white doesn’t make you a saip, it doesn’t mean you have money; it doesn’t mean you agree with the way the west treated and continues to treat the world.
I know that I must tolerate the word saip. It comes from those who do not know, those who do not care, and those who have suffered a far greater pain. I am not a saip. I know this, and it is only through my actions that I will show others otherwise. I can not blame or hold accountable anyone who calls me saip, whether they do so with love and ignorance, or with hatred and menace. They have every reason to see me as just another saip. Why else would a white man be in their country? For hundreds of years the experience has not been a pleasant one. They do not know me or the passion and love that I feel for all humanity.
On another note, it’s interesting when the tables turn. For my entire life I have been one in the majority. I am descended from a hodgepodge of European cultures and grew up in a mostly white America. Even here, we (the YAVs) comment that we carry the invisible knapsack of white privilege. We are treated different just because of the color of our skin and often this means better. Sometimes we are met with derogatory terms and minor harassment, but very rarely. How can we embrace the privilege yet not also accept the bad? This is another reason that I do not take more than others, that I wish to reject the knapsack. I do not willingly accept white privilege, even though it is heaped upon me anyway; just as I am not willing to embrace the negative directed at me solely because the color of my skin.
People at Blind School no longer call me saip and when they do they see the pain. They see the hurt. They care and the usage stops. They watch me do things that they have never seen a white person do. They watch me try. As I said, I will bear the pain for a year, or for five years, or for a lifetime, but I will never cause this pain to another so long as I live.
I can’t figure out how to describe this trip to you. Perhaps the best would be to refer to it as a road trip from hell. More than seventy of us on a bus meant for 50. Think sardines. We left at 4am, which is fine. I have been on many road trips and am quite used to this. You get in the car, the driver drives, everyone else naps and you take your shift when it comes. In fact the last road trip I went on two of us left north Michigan at 9pm and drove until about 3pm the next day. But nothing really compares to this.
As I said we left at 4am. I got on the bus, found a seat with several other people in it, curled up and started to nod off. Now every time I got to sleep someone would prod me. “Are you tired David?” “Did you not sleep last night?” Really? Its 4am and I have been up since before that. How could they not be tired?
But they weren’t. With the bus rolling down the highway, they kicked on some tunes at full volume and all started a dance party in the isle. “Come dance, don’t sleep.” Really? Okay, so at first I must admit that I was honored to be apart of it and I laughed with them, but by 7am, I was dead. I was tired of being asked questions. I was yearning whole heartedly for that individualist space that westerns so often crave. I was fed up. I was tired.
Two things really bothered me to no end, wearing at my patience and together then at my soul. It is one thing to be cramped, another thing to be cramped the entire day in a bus with no end in sight. While it was only eight hours to where we were going, those were just stops. The bus trip did not end until about 9 that night.
However the crampedness alone is not too bothersome and at least tolerable. I enjoyed my personal space a lot before coming here. To have someone hanging on you or walking right on top of you can get old after awhile. But it can also grow on you after awhile. There is a certain bond between people that is swept aside for the sake of space in America. Everyone wishes to have good friends yet at the same time everyone is afraid to get too close for fear of losing that space. It is a “what if the walls fall down mentality.” Can you have the cake and eat it? But after ten hours, I wanted my walls, oh my sweet sweet space.
What really crept under my skin was the handful of students that would not leave me to take the air that I was suffocating to have. The youth behind me would close my window to open his more. He would close my curtain so that he could see things better. My only escape to the outside was constantly and consistently being sealed off. I was pissed off to no end, even to the point of me slamming his grasping window closing hand against the wall. It was clearly wearing at my soul and he was not the only one. Even when I tried to move elsewhere on the bus, I was followed. They would grab my arms, try to rub my head, and do many things that they discovered I did not like.
It makes me wonder. Did Jesus ever get pissed off? Sure Jesus was the Son of God, a.k.a. God, but he was also human. I am sure with twelve of them living in close quarters always together there must be things about the disciples that ticked Him off to no end. Maybe Peter clicked a lot when he talked and John always was puppy dogging him. You think He ever turned around and said SHUT UP? I am not so sure either but as much as I question the heavenly side of Christ, I might as well question the earthly side.
By the time the bus stopped for the night I was ready to get off. It ended up that we had to walk a ways in the dark to get to the place that we were staying. Could a better situation for me occur? I walked about 20 meters behind everyone else, mostly in the shadows as quite as I could be. I enjoyed the night and the stars and the peace that comes with it. Nothing was better for my soul. Upon a good night’s rest with plenty of room, (I intentionally chose to sleep on the floor.) I was ready for day two trapped in the bus.
I tried to approach this day different. I was going to actively engage anyone who harassed me. I was going to talk to the kid behind me as much as he wanted and then some. I was going to joke and sit on people and mess with everyone more than they had messed with me the day before. I was going to try to approach everyone with a positive light. I was going to try to embrace the sardine-ness rather than repel it. Really, the day ended up going a whole lot better. That isn’t to say that I was not ready to get off the bus at the trip, but it was better. So maybe not quite the road trip from hell.
So I am not afraid of spiders. But somehow the rumor got started that I am terrified of them. That I do not like them and that I am very very afraid. This is not true. I love camping and I like nature. I love and am fascinated by spiders. Clearly I am not afraid of spiders.
One day when I was first here, I noticed that there were insects living in the doorframe to my room. My first thought was that they were termites coming to wreak havoc on my new found home. I pointed these out to someone so that they could do something about them. It turns out that they are not termites, or they are and no one minds them. But from that the story began that I was terrified of spiders, which I am not.
I tried to explain time and time again that I was not afraid of spiders. That I thought they were termites, etc. So about a month later I thought the rumor was crushed. That was until one evening I am eating alongside the headmistress’s husband who says, “I hear you are afraid of spiders.”
Spidee-iider
Once again my dignity was put on the line as I think, “I am in India, and one can not be afraid of spiders.” I tried to explain but I think with too little avail. But that’s not the point.
As I go back to my room and shower and do my laundry by hand, I notice a massive spider drinking out of a puddle in the middle of the floor. He is about the size of a half dollar, brown, and a little violin on his back. That’s cool.
What?
Violin?
So I decided I am going to get a picture. I mean how many times does one get to see a Brown Recluse in India?
But as I am adjusting my camera for a close shot, I look back and he is gone. And I can’t find him. And I am barefoot (as you are supposed to be in an Indian house.) So I start to laugh at myself and how I was concerned about the rumor before, and here I was with a spider that has gone missing.
Well my fears were not going to get the best of me. I was going to finish hanging my laundry and then I was going to the safety of my bed. That was until a piece of newspaper brushed my leg and I went four feet in the air. (If only my friends knew...) I searched everywhere to eventually find him (By this time with a flashlight due to the rotating statewide power cuts.) And then set him in my bathroom to eat his fill and leave by open window.
Like at a hospital, one must leave their dignity at the door at all times.
*I am not even sure it was a recluse, and my photo is sloppy. Are they in India?
One day when I was first here, I noticed that there were insects living in the doorframe to my room. My first thought was that they were termites coming to wreak havoc on my new found home. I pointed these out to someone so that they could do something about them. It turns out that they are not termites, or they are and no one minds them. But from that the story began that I was terrified of spiders, which I am not.
I tried to explain time and time again that I was not afraid of spiders. That I thought they were termites, etc. So about a month later I thought the rumor was crushed. That was until one evening I am eating alongside the headmistress’s husband who says, “I hear you are afraid of spiders.”
Spidee-iider
Once again my dignity was put on the line as I think, “I am in India, and one can not be afraid of spiders.” I tried to explain but I think with too little avail. But that’s not the point.
As I go back to my room and shower and do my laundry by hand, I notice a massive spider drinking out of a puddle in the middle of the floor. He is about the size of a half dollar, brown, and a little violin on his back. That’s cool.
What?
Violin?
So I decided I am going to get a picture. I mean how many times does one get to see a Brown Recluse in India?
But as I am adjusting my camera for a close shot, I look back and he is gone. And I can’t find him. And I am barefoot (as you are supposed to be in an Indian house.) So I start to laugh at myself and how I was concerned about the rumor before, and here I was with a spider that has gone missing.
Well my fears were not going to get the best of me. I was going to finish hanging my laundry and then I was going to the safety of my bed. That was until a piece of newspaper brushed my leg and I went four feet in the air. (If only my friends knew...) I searched everywhere to eventually find him (By this time with a flashlight due to the rotating statewide power cuts.) And then set him in my bathroom to eat his fill and leave by open window.
Like at a hospital, one must leave their dignity at the door at all times.
*I am not even sure it was a recluse, and my photo is sloppy. Are they in India?
So I feel like it’s about that time again to type up some more of my experiences and how things are going in general. I also have the free time to do it today because yesterday and today are holidays. Which is good because my days off are often split between doing things with various people around town and a day of down time where I run around and try to do the things I have to do, then try to get as much rest as possible. In fact, I will have to write this post in parts because I have to leave in 20 minutes to go find a Munda to purchase so that I will be dress appropriate for the wedding this Sunday.
A Munda is like a Kali, and a Kali is like a sheet that you were around your waist and tuck it in. They are infinitely more comfortable than pants and one does not sweat as much in them during the day. However a Kali is not appropriate during the day (unless you are doing manual labor.) It has something to do with status and such. I was just told to not wear my Kali outside the Blind School and never during school work hours. However, it is a lot more comfortable than pants and I change into it as so as I get home. (as does everyone else.)
Which kind of leads into a story. I decided that I would wear my Kali to dinner one night, something I have never done before. My friends wear it all the time, but for me to walk into the mess hall with all the students and staff was amusing. Everyone laughed and then some pointed out that I was wearing it wrong. I also could not flip it up at half length, a source of more enjoyment for everyone. The students who can see a little called me over to poke fun with me. It was amusing. Later, after dinner, the Headmistress came in. I think to see me dressed this way. She also had a good laugh, especially when I tried to show her how to fold it at half length properly (which I failed at). Then I bounced and skipped my way out of there. It was Good times.
After coming to the Blind School, people have been incredibly awesome to me. I have my up days and then I have my down days, but they are always there. So old friends back home, I am afraid you have been replaced. I know I told you I was coming back, but like dust in the wind without an anchor. I am gone. Tear.
Everyday I get up and go to breakfast at 8:10am. It is always something special and nothing you would ever get served in America. Yet I feel like you guys are missing out. The food here is fantastic. For instance, this morning for breakfast we were served appum and green peas (think pancakes made of rice flour, coconut milk, and some yeast; all smothered/covered in green peas.)
After breakfast I head back to my room for a morning shower and all the other steps I missed jumping out of bed to make breakfast on time. It also helps to get up and get moving a bit before the morning shower. There is no hot water to shower with so the showers are quite cold. There is a hot water heater but it does not produce water out of the showerhead, only a tap in the wall. I used to try to use this along with the bucket but not since I noticed the switch to the heater sparks when it’s flipped, which seems all well in good in all when you are standing in a puddle of shower water. So cold showers for me, followed by brushing of the teeth.
I should also point out that tap water in India is not as purified as the tap in the States. It is fine for showering and other things but there are still microbes in it. I was not sure if you could brush your teeth with it, but after several weeks of testing there seems to be no adverse side effects.
I also shave sometimes. At least once a week so I am not as scruffy as I was in the States. However, EVERYONE has a mustache here in India. But despite my best efforts, I do not think it is in the cards for me. Time to give in and concede. Mostly because I have a wedding to go to and I think I will already look funny enough in my newly bought Munda.
After this is the morning assembly. The kids gather in lines like I used to do in Scouts and then sound off a lot of things I do not understand. Somewhere in there is a counting off of the students, the prayer, and the morning news as well as some announcements. After this I begin my day.
“What do I do in my days here?” you might ask.
Everything I can do, and sometimes that is very little OR it might seem like very little. Mostly I speak English. I speak to the staff and also the students. During the day, the students have periods off in which I walk in and begin to teach English.
Sometimes there is understanding. A few common phrases such as “How are you?” and “What is your name?” are understood by everyone, even the first standard (grade) students. Most also understand “Tell me about your family.” There are memorized/taught answers to these questions.
However, there is more to this I found. They are not just basic English questions. They also glimpse into the culture here. On one of my first days, I was asking questions but did not want to single out any one student. “How are you?” Next student, “What is your name?” Next student, “Tell me about your family.” And so on…
What I didn’t realize is I upset them (at least one of them) because I had not inquired more about her father and mother and their names and what they do and her brothers and sisters and so on and so forth. She was upset because I had not asked about her family.
There is a lot of attention given to family here, and a lot of respect for parents. No one back home would care if I asked about their parents and siblings. It was definitely a wake up call that I was in a new land.
I also just converse with people, even people who I have no idea what they are saying. I sit and learn whatever they care to teach me. Sometimes they teach me Malayalam, and sometimes music, and sometimes patience. Sometimes I sit in a room and watch others converse and try to figure out what is being said. Sometimes I play games. In fact I play games a lot.
Beside the daily Cricket game, I also help out with the small P.E. games during school hours. I also have taught several people cards such as “Go Fish”, “ERS”, and the basics of Poker. The School Administrator came in one day right before we were going to play and I thought we were in trouble. That was until he said, “Magic? I know a trick.” And then performed it for us several times. Things like that.
One day, because I had little to do, I decided to make a kite to show some of the students who see partially how flight works. The kite never flew, but not before two other teachers were trying to make kites of their own and were running up and down the driveway. It was good times had by all.
The same is true of the time that one of my friends mentioned something about poles you could walk on. And I said “stilts.” Before I knew it I was proving that I could walk on stilts and teaching others to do the same. I was also shown how to walk on them differently so I would be able to run. Good times.
These are all things that I do during the day. I sit. I talk. I play. I engage people. In every thing there is a small exchange of culture, of people, of love. And that makes everyday here worth it.
After evening Cricket I go and shower. Sometimes I watch the bats before I go in. Eventually the mosquitoes chase me in, which only seems right because that is the whole reason the bats are out. It is fun to watch them though. Very rarely do you see them in the U.S. anymore with all the lights and noises. If you haven’t, you are missing out on something spectacular. They fly much faster with more control and agility than birds. Maybe I just like them a lot.
After that comes dinner and then bed. I go to my room, reflect, read, and write in my journal. Then I fall asleep under my favorite and only sheet, with the fan going full till to chase away mosquitoes and the 90* Heat. (I am exaggerating. Sometimes it cools down to 88* before I go to bed.) Thank God for my thermometer and my love of Louisiana camping. Home Sweet Home in so many ways.
This is how I spend my average day, so with the exception of Sudie, I do not see the other volunteers but once a month. The retreat photos are the exception. But my friends here are good. They take me around and help me where I need to go on the weekends and holidays. I also go along with them to help them with their errands (not like I am any help or anything) but I am never treated as a burden. I am seemingly introduced to everyone. Everyone is curious to know where I am from and what I am doing and then a lot of other things. I would say that they take the conversation beyond small talk but I am not sure if that exists here. People really want to know about life elsewhere and like my students; they really want to know about family. I like to think that we treat other people the same back home in the States, especially foreigners who don’t speak a lick of English. But if only that were true.
A Munda is like a Kali, and a Kali is like a sheet that you were around your waist and tuck it in. They are infinitely more comfortable than pants and one does not sweat as much in them during the day. However a Kali is not appropriate during the day (unless you are doing manual labor.) It has something to do with status and such. I was just told to not wear my Kali outside the Blind School and never during school work hours. However, it is a lot more comfortable than pants and I change into it as so as I get home. (as does everyone else.)
Which kind of leads into a story. I decided that I would wear my Kali to dinner one night, something I have never done before. My friends wear it all the time, but for me to walk into the mess hall with all the students and staff was amusing. Everyone laughed and then some pointed out that I was wearing it wrong. I also could not flip it up at half length, a source of more enjoyment for everyone. The students who can see a little called me over to poke fun with me. It was amusing. Later, after dinner, the Headmistress came in. I think to see me dressed this way. She also had a good laugh, especially when I tried to show her how to fold it at half length properly (which I failed at). Then I bounced and skipped my way out of there. It was Good times.
After coming to the Blind School, people have been incredibly awesome to me. I have my up days and then I have my down days, but they are always there. So old friends back home, I am afraid you have been replaced. I know I told you I was coming back, but like dust in the wind without an anchor. I am gone. Tear.
Everyday I get up and go to breakfast at 8:10am. It is always something special and nothing you would ever get served in America. Yet I feel like you guys are missing out. The food here is fantastic. For instance, this morning for breakfast we were served appum and green peas (think pancakes made of rice flour, coconut milk, and some yeast; all smothered/covered in green peas.)
After breakfast I head back to my room for a morning shower and all the other steps I missed jumping out of bed to make breakfast on time. It also helps to get up and get moving a bit before the morning shower. There is no hot water to shower with so the showers are quite cold. There is a hot water heater but it does not produce water out of the showerhead, only a tap in the wall. I used to try to use this along with the bucket but not since I noticed the switch to the heater sparks when it’s flipped, which seems all well in good in all when you are standing in a puddle of shower water. So cold showers for me, followed by brushing of the teeth.
I should also point out that tap water in India is not as purified as the tap in the States. It is fine for showering and other things but there are still microbes in it. I was not sure if you could brush your teeth with it, but after several weeks of testing there seems to be no adverse side effects.
I also shave sometimes. At least once a week so I am not as scruffy as I was in the States. However, EVERYONE has a mustache here in India. But despite my best efforts, I do not think it is in the cards for me. Time to give in and concede. Mostly because I have a wedding to go to and I think I will already look funny enough in my newly bought Munda.
After this is the morning assembly. The kids gather in lines like I used to do in Scouts and then sound off a lot of things I do not understand. Somewhere in there is a counting off of the students, the prayer, and the morning news as well as some announcements. After this I begin my day.
“What do I do in my days here?” you might ask.
Everything I can do, and sometimes that is very little OR it might seem like very little. Mostly I speak English. I speak to the staff and also the students. During the day, the students have periods off in which I walk in and begin to teach English.
Sometimes there is understanding. A few common phrases such as “How are you?” and “What is your name?” are understood by everyone, even the first standard (grade) students. Most also understand “Tell me about your family.” There are memorized/taught answers to these questions.
However, there is more to this I found. They are not just basic English questions. They also glimpse into the culture here. On one of my first days, I was asking questions but did not want to single out any one student. “How are you?” Next student, “What is your name?” Next student, “Tell me about your family.” And so on…
What I didn’t realize is I upset them (at least one of them) because I had not inquired more about her father and mother and their names and what they do and her brothers and sisters and so on and so forth. She was upset because I had not asked about her family.
There is a lot of attention given to family here, and a lot of respect for parents. No one back home would care if I asked about their parents and siblings. It was definitely a wake up call that I was in a new land.
I also just converse with people, even people who I have no idea what they are saying. I sit and learn whatever they care to teach me. Sometimes they teach me Malayalam, and sometimes music, and sometimes patience. Sometimes I sit in a room and watch others converse and try to figure out what is being said. Sometimes I play games. In fact I play games a lot.
Beside the daily Cricket game, I also help out with the small P.E. games during school hours. I also have taught several people cards such as “Go Fish”, “ERS”, and the basics of Poker. The School Administrator came in one day right before we were going to play and I thought we were in trouble. That was until he said, “Magic? I know a trick.” And then performed it for us several times. Things like that.
One day, because I had little to do, I decided to make a kite to show some of the students who see partially how flight works. The kite never flew, but not before two other teachers were trying to make kites of their own and were running up and down the driveway. It was good times had by all.
The same is true of the time that one of my friends mentioned something about poles you could walk on. And I said “stilts.” Before I knew it I was proving that I could walk on stilts and teaching others to do the same. I was also shown how to walk on them differently so I would be able to run. Good times.
These are all things that I do during the day. I sit. I talk. I play. I engage people. In every thing there is a small exchange of culture, of people, of love. And that makes everyday here worth it.
After evening Cricket I go and shower. Sometimes I watch the bats before I go in. Eventually the mosquitoes chase me in, which only seems right because that is the whole reason the bats are out. It is fun to watch them though. Very rarely do you see them in the U.S. anymore with all the lights and noises. If you haven’t, you are missing out on something spectacular. They fly much faster with more control and agility than birds. Maybe I just like them a lot.
After that comes dinner and then bed. I go to my room, reflect, read, and write in my journal. Then I fall asleep under my favorite and only sheet, with the fan going full till to chase away mosquitoes and the 90* Heat. (I am exaggerating. Sometimes it cools down to 88* before I go to bed.) Thank God for my thermometer and my love of Louisiana camping. Home Sweet Home in so many ways.
This is how I spend my average day, so with the exception of Sudie, I do not see the other volunteers but once a month. The retreat photos are the exception. But my friends here are good. They take me around and help me where I need to go on the weekends and holidays. I also go along with them to help them with their errands (not like I am any help or anything) but I am never treated as a burden. I am seemingly introduced to everyone. Everyone is curious to know where I am from and what I am doing and then a lot of other things. I would say that they take the conversation beyond small talk but I am not sure if that exists here. People really want to know about life elsewhere and like my students; they really want to know about family. I like to think that we treat other people the same back home in the States, especially foreigners who don’t speak a lick of English. But if only that were true.
So I do not have very much time, so I will make this brief.
After a week and a night at Achen's house, we all went our separate ways. The training time was over. No more comfort and security of a family that was used to volunteers. No more people who were there to help get us used to India and acclimate. Nothing is scarier than being pushed out of Taxi door on the step of a building in a strange land.
Well, at least that part is true. Nothing is scarier than that first step out into your new unfamiliar world. The rest however is not so much. From the moment I stepped out of the Taxi, everyone knew my name, and I fell like it was only for the sake of introductions that names where exchanged. They were solely for my benefit. Another thing: everyone hear wants to help me acclimate. So many people have tried to take me under their wing that sometimes I feel overwhelmed by hospitality. But it is beautiful. With so many people wanting to help me with my language skills, how can I not learn Malayalam?
And it being the second day and all, I think people are starting to realize that I speak a lot less Malayalam than they in English, so there is no harm in trying. It also helps when I butcher my Malayalam in front of a group. Everyone else sounds a bit more confident after that.
So I am living right now in a small room with a connected bathroom. However I think I am living above what the students and single faculty have. It is still however simple by western standards, and I believe that there is something to be embraced in that. Simplicity.
Other things that I have done here is become apart of the seemingly daily cricket game. One of my new found student friends wanted me to play today on his team. I do not know the rules or how to play, I said. He did not care. We will probably lose, but it is good to be apart of something so cool.
I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I am staying at a Blind School in Kerala. That means that the students are all partially blind, if not entirely. But it is really cool the way the ones that are able to, lead those who can not. Even the blind will lead the blind in and out of rooms together. Everyone buddies up to get around, and they take care of each other. It is a beautiful sight (pun not intended) and I think there is something to learn there. The same with my lack of Malayalam and their lack of English. Through the dark we stumble together.
That is all, I have to go. I will try to add more later but internet is not easily accessible here.
After a week and a night at Achen's house, we all went our separate ways. The training time was over. No more comfort and security of a family that was used to volunteers. No more people who were there to help get us used to India and acclimate. Nothing is scarier than being pushed out of Taxi door on the step of a building in a strange land.
Well, at least that part is true. Nothing is scarier than that first step out into your new unfamiliar world. The rest however is not so much. From the moment I stepped out of the Taxi, everyone knew my name, and I fell like it was only for the sake of introductions that names where exchanged. They were solely for my benefit. Another thing: everyone hear wants to help me acclimate. So many people have tried to take me under their wing that sometimes I feel overwhelmed by hospitality. But it is beautiful. With so many people wanting to help me with my language skills, how can I not learn Malayalam?
And it being the second day and all, I think people are starting to realize that I speak a lot less Malayalam than they in English, so there is no harm in trying. It also helps when I butcher my Malayalam in front of a group. Everyone else sounds a bit more confident after that.
So I am living right now in a small room with a connected bathroom. However I think I am living above what the students and single faculty have. It is still however simple by western standards, and I believe that there is something to be embraced in that. Simplicity.
Other things that I have done here is become apart of the seemingly daily cricket game. One of my new found student friends wanted me to play today on his team. I do not know the rules or how to play, I said. He did not care. We will probably lose, but it is good to be apart of something so cool.
I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I am staying at a Blind School in Kerala. That means that the students are all partially blind, if not entirely. But it is really cool the way the ones that are able to, lead those who can not. Even the blind will lead the blind in and out of rooms together. Everyone buddies up to get around, and they take care of each other. It is a beautiful sight (pun not intended) and I think there is something to learn there. The same with my lack of Malayalam and their lack of English. Through the dark we stumble together.
That is all, I have to go. I will try to add more later but internet is not easily accessible here.
So where to begin? I guess I can start with getting on the plane in New Orleans, Louisiana. Here after a cup of coffee, I left my mom, dad, younger brother, and girlfriend (I miss them) to board a plane for what promises to be an adventure of a life time. Because of Hurricane Gustav I was not able to fly out on that Monday (Sept. 1). If you did not know, that is the day Gustav came across my beautiful home state, once again redesigning the look of coastal Louisiana, most notably for the worst. On that note, does anyone know how Grand Isle is looking?
Anyway, because I could not make my original flight, I ended up having what is considered a last minute flight out of the country. I was considered an SSSS flyer. What does that mean? I can only imagine it stands for Security shouted four times really loud, most probably in a W voice.
So as I walked up to the check point, this was highlighted, reiterating that I deserved special attention, which I got. A few pat downs, something the attendant called a special back rub, and a chemical test or two later, I was on my way.
Now the flight from New Orleans to Washington was nice. The flight from Washington to London was interesting. The flight to Bahrain from London was long. And the flight from there to Kochi was, well, let’s just say I am glad to be here. While it was fun and all, 34 hours and two days later makes for a tired person, even if one is used to the rigors of college.
Now while walking through customs is no problem, mostly because I have nothing to hide, I still get very nervous. I had been through a checkpoint at ever stop, save D.C. but still was worried that they might find something on me. What if the granola bars that I didn’t declare as nuts and berries really are? (By the way, thanks mom.) These are very real fears. But as I overcame them and cleared the line, I grabbed my luggage and was able to go.
So out into the Indian air I stepped; A very real experience indeed. While I knew that my country coordinator or perhaps his
India 1
friend was going to pick me up, I did not know where to look for them. This made it very difficult seeing as there was a multitude of people packed everywhere waiting for loved ones to arrive (Think Mardi Gras). And I, being me, decided to go look for Achen (my country coordinator) myself. After wandering through the crowd fearing pick pockets for about 30 minutes, dragging my little bit of luggage on the way, Achen’s friend found me and we went and got into the car.
Now in the U.S., people drive on the right side of the road where as in Britain people drive on the left side. Now in India they drive more on the left and more on the center. It is a combination of quickness, skill, and good timing. A thrill to watch and even more so to experience. However, it is more of a courtesy of the road than a dominance of it. So while it often feels to one not used to the driving that it is one big chicken fight tournament, there are surprisingly few dents on cars. People truly are considerate of the road which leads to less traffic build up, something Americans could definitely learn from. However, I am glad at times for a strong bladder.
But as I got to Achen’s house I knew all was well. After several days of traveling I had found a friend. In fact I had found several. I met Achen’s wife Betty as well as the five other Volunteers: Sudie, Ariel, John, Becca, and Lindsey. It was good. I found out that they had been praying for me since they had come together. And now they felt complete. It was a good feeling.
Now, being jet lagged and not really sleeping on my flights, I was wide awake. No, seriously. There are only so many cups of coffee that a hostess can serve on a flight, and I drank everyone, and tea, and the cokes. By the way, I think I should mention here all the people who told me not to drink caffeine on my flights. What do they know? So it being Sunday morning, and me being cracked out on caffeine and adrenaline, we all went to church.
So Achen is a pastor. In fact, Achen is not so much his name as it means pastor, or a respectable person. But nevertheless, he is a pastor, at a church, that we went to, that does not speak a lick of English. Which is actually a really good thing seeing as how poor I sing. Did I mention that we were asked to stand in front of the congregation and sing a hymn to them? Well we did, right after our introductions. But it was okay for my compatriots had practiced the night prior. I however had to sing too. One that I had never heard of before. Let me assure you that it was beautiful. Tone deaf and half asleep I sang a song for them. But you are thinking they do not know English so it is okay. I should note here we are one of the few nations of people that speak only one language.
Something else amusing about church is that women sit on one side and men on the other. John and I sat with the rest (mostly because we were told to by Achen) but we got some looks for it as well. All and all it was a good time, wrapped up with tea outside. The congregation was nice and a lot of members came and spoke with us. Upon our return home, the rest of the day became a blur. I remember a guest speaker but not so much what he said. Mostly this is because I could not stay awake and I am pretty sure I ended up drooling on myself. I did feel bad and apologized profusely for it. I think he found it humorous, at least I hope so. I then napped and ate dinner and then retired early.
Thus ends the first day.
The rest of the days since have been characterized by pretty much the same, so I will not give a play by play. I know,…tear.
The mornings begin (if you get up on time) with “bed tea,” that is tea served at 600. Now tea here is not good as tea at home, its even better. I like to think that it is the milk, or maybe the love put in. Whatever it is, it makes for some good stuff. Now I have been told on multiple occasions that the purpose of bed tea, besides to wake you, is to “stimulate the bowels.” That not everywhere has the best facilities and this tea is there to help you go in the morning.
(On a side note, we, as volunteers have been instructed not to inform you, the public of our daily movements, but know they are a large part of daily life as well as the conversation. This I am sure is much to Achen’s chagrin.)
The day is then followed by the reading of the newspaper as well as correspondence home. The later I have failed to do up until now. While our live may seem very strenuous to you, Achen emphasizes to us reading daily news so that we can be informed of our surroundings. For instance, it is one thing for him to tell us to turn off lights and conserve energy and quite another to read about the negative effects the lack of power is having and the continued rolling blackouts. It is very real here.
Then there is breakfast. Breakfast, lunch and dinner all seem to consist of a rice dish accompanied by some curry or sauce. There is usually a side bread and a source of protein. There is also on some occasions a wonderful vegetable salad type dished that Betty makes. It is delicious, and I mean it. This is all eaten with the right hand. The left is used for other purposes.
(Cultural Check: So right about now you are probably thinking that is not sanitary. How can you eat with your hands? Well first, it is only the right, and second is that we wash them well before. The hand is a useful tool that is much better for eating than the fork. I can eat politely with my hand faster than you can eat like a Mongol with a fork -<apologies to the Mongols. That was an unfair stereotype.> The hand is then rinsed of food and good to go.)
(Cultural Check: To address the other end; yes it is cold and yes, my bum is cleaner than your bum. Toilet paper is nice and you have a warm dry feeling from it, but you can also get a rash. Water is gentler and actually gets everything that needs to be got. How clean do you really feel after T.P. knowing that you got it all, at least what did not dry on first? Do you feel clean? Because I do. There is a reason people do things.)
India 2
Following breakfast we have our morning bible study which is usually tied in with the social implications that that book has. Actions and Words, Actions and Words. Its all about making them line up. Does your kingdom of heaven have poor people in it? Do people share? I would hope so. After all, thy kingdom come, thy….Whatever it is, it is all good. But I will not stand too long on my block. I think a lot of people already know what is wrong and what is right. It is a matter of making it all come to.
We usually get something to drink after. Sometimes juice, sometimes tea, in fact mostly tea. It is good though, much like everything else I ingest here. Let me talk about bananas. I have never had such awesome bananas. I eat them at every meal because they are so good, well that, and they help with other things.
On the Block - You know what the best thing about bananas is? They are a quarter for more than two pounds. And yet people go hungry because they can not afford food. As cheap as it is, people work but can not always eat. What does Holy Communion mean to you in a world like this?
Zoo
We also have speakers and such come and talk about the state of Kerala or India. Sometimes Achen will talk about stuff as well. I am finding that most people here are better informed of events that occur around them than people back home. In part it is refreshing.
We also have begun to learn the language of Malayalam. Somewhere around 50+ symbols that each have there own sound, none of which are similar to the Latin alphabet. But so many symbols is not a bad thing. In English the pronouncing of a letter depends on the context in a word. For instance the A in Cat is different to the A in Cart. This makes English a hard language to learn. In Malayalam, a symbol always has the same pronunciation, which really helps.
I think that is all I have time for now. Go in peace, serve the Lord.
Anyway, because I could not make my original flight, I ended up having what is considered a last minute flight out of the country. I was considered an SSSS flyer. What does that mean? I can only imagine it stands for Security shouted four times really loud, most probably in a W voice.
Now the flight from New Orleans to Washington was nice. The flight from Washington to London was interesting. The flight to Bahrain from London was long. And the flight from there to Kochi was, well, let’s just say I am glad to be here. While it was fun and all, 34 hours and two days later makes for a tired person, even if one is used to the rigors of college.
Now while walking through customs is no problem, mostly because I have nothing to hide, I still get very nervous. I had been through a checkpoint at ever stop, save D.C. but still was worried that they might find something on me. What if the granola bars that I didn’t declare as nuts and berries really are? (By the way, thanks mom.) These are very real fears. But as I overcame them and cleared the line, I grabbed my luggage and was able to go.
So out into the Indian air I stepped; A very real experience indeed. While I knew that my country coordinator or perhaps his
India 1
friend was going to pick me up, I did not know where to look for them. This made it very difficult seeing as there was a multitude of people packed everywhere waiting for loved ones to arrive (Think Mardi Gras). And I, being me, decided to go look for Achen (my country coordinator) myself. After wandering through the crowd fearing pick pockets for about 30 minutes, dragging my little bit of luggage on the way, Achen’s friend found me and we went and got into the car.
Now in the U.S., people drive on the right side of the road where as in Britain people drive on the left side. Now in India they drive more on the left and more on the center. It is a combination of quickness, skill, and good timing. A thrill to watch and even more so to experience. However, it is more of a courtesy of the road than a dominance of it. So while it often feels to one not used to the driving that it is one big chicken fight tournament, there are surprisingly few dents on cars. People truly are considerate of the road which leads to less traffic build up, something Americans could definitely learn from. However, I am glad at times for a strong bladder.
But as I got to Achen’s house I knew all was well. After several days of traveling I had found a friend. In fact I had found several. I met Achen’s wife Betty as well as the five other Volunteers: Sudie, Ariel, John, Becca, and Lindsey. It was good. I found out that they had been praying for me since they had come together. And now they felt complete. It was a good feeling.
Now, being jet lagged and not really sleeping on my flights, I was wide awake. No, seriously. There are only so many cups of coffee that a hostess can serve on a flight, and I drank everyone, and tea, and the cokes. By the way, I think I should mention here all the people who told me not to drink caffeine on my flights. What do they know? So it being Sunday morning, and me being cracked out on caffeine and adrenaline, we all went to church.
So Achen is a pastor. In fact, Achen is not so much his name as it means pastor, or a respectable person. But nevertheless, he is a pastor, at a church, that we went to, that does not speak a lick of English. Which is actually a really good thing seeing as how poor I sing. Did I mention that we were asked to stand in front of the congregation and sing a hymn to them? Well we did, right after our introductions. But it was okay for my compatriots had practiced the night prior. I however had to sing too. One that I had never heard of before. Let me assure you that it was beautiful. Tone deaf and half asleep I sang a song for them. But you are thinking they do not know English so it is okay. I should note here we are one of the few nations of people that speak only one language.
Something else amusing about church is that women sit on one side and men on the other. John and I sat with the rest (mostly because we were told to by Achen) but we got some looks for it as well. All and all it was a good time, wrapped up with tea outside. The congregation was nice and a lot of members came and spoke with us. Upon our return home, the rest of the day became a blur. I remember a guest speaker but not so much what he said. Mostly this is because I could not stay awake and I am pretty sure I ended up drooling on myself. I did feel bad and apologized profusely for it. I think he found it humorous, at least I hope so. I then napped and ate dinner and then retired early.
Thus ends the first day.
The rest of the days since have been characterized by pretty much the same, so I will not give a play by play. I know,…tear.
The mornings begin (if you get up on time) with “bed tea,” that is tea served at 600. Now tea here is not good as tea at home, its even better. I like to think that it is the milk, or maybe the love put in. Whatever it is, it makes for some good stuff. Now I have been told on multiple occasions that the purpose of bed tea, besides to wake you, is to “stimulate the bowels.” That not everywhere has the best facilities and this tea is there to help you go in the morning.
(On a side note, we, as volunteers have been instructed not to inform you, the public of our daily movements, but know they are a large part of daily life as well as the conversation. This I am sure is much to Achen’s chagrin.)
The day is then followed by the reading of the newspaper as well as correspondence home. The later I have failed to do up until now. While our live may seem very strenuous to you, Achen emphasizes to us reading daily news so that we can be informed of our surroundings. For instance, it is one thing for him to tell us to turn off lights and conserve energy and quite another to read about the negative effects the lack of power is having and the continued rolling blackouts. It is very real here.
Then there is breakfast. Breakfast, lunch and dinner all seem to consist of a rice dish accompanied by some curry or sauce. There is usually a side bread and a source of protein. There is also on some occasions a wonderful vegetable salad type dished that Betty makes. It is delicious, and I mean it. This is all eaten with the right hand. The left is used for other purposes.
(Cultural Check: So right about now you are probably thinking that is not sanitary. How can you eat with your hands? Well first, it is only the right, and second is that we wash them well before. The hand is a useful tool that is much better for eating than the fork. I can eat politely with my hand faster than you can eat like a Mongol with a fork -<apologies to the Mongols. That was an unfair stereotype.> The hand is then rinsed of food and good to go.)
(Cultural Check: To address the other end; yes it is cold and yes, my bum is cleaner than your bum. Toilet paper is nice and you have a warm dry feeling from it, but you can also get a rash. Water is gentler and actually gets everything that needs to be got. How clean do you really feel after T.P. knowing that you got it all, at least what did not dry on first? Do you feel clean? Because I do. There is a reason people do things.)
India 2
Following breakfast we have our morning bible study which is usually tied in with the social implications that that book has. Actions and Words, Actions and Words. Its all about making them line up. Does your kingdom of heaven have poor people in it? Do people share? I would hope so. After all, thy kingdom come, thy….Whatever it is, it is all good. But I will not stand too long on my block. I think a lot of people already know what is wrong and what is right. It is a matter of making it all come to.
We usually get something to drink after. Sometimes juice, sometimes tea, in fact mostly tea. It is good though, much like everything else I ingest here. Let me talk about bananas. I have never had such awesome bananas. I eat them at every meal because they are so good, well that, and they help with other things.
On the Block - You know what the best thing about bananas is? They are a quarter for more than two pounds. And yet people go hungry because they can not afford food. As cheap as it is, people work but can not always eat. What does Holy Communion mean to you in a world like this?
Zoo
We also have speakers and such come and talk about the state of Kerala or India. Sometimes Achen will talk about stuff as well. I am finding that most people here are better informed of events that occur around them than people back home. In part it is refreshing.
We also have begun to learn the language of Malayalam. Somewhere around 50+ symbols that each have there own sound, none of which are similar to the Latin alphabet. But so many symbols is not a bad thing. In English the pronouncing of a letter depends on the context in a word. For instance the A in Cat is different to the A in Cart. This makes English a hard language to learn. In Malayalam, a symbol always has the same pronunciation, which really helps.
I think that is all I have time for now. Go in peace, serve the Lord.
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