As her field facilitator Heidi and I would talk about how to deal with the unique situations she ran into in India. I remember her saying over and over again, "I don't know the answer." as if there was just one answer. I would laugh and having recently read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I would respond, "The answer is 42."
In the field studies way I would never try to give her an answer (not that I had one to give in the first place). So, we would talk about the cultural, social, and practical implications of what she might do. We would talk about issues like race, gender, or economic status. We would talk about past field studies students and the impact of their choices. We would then surmise how certain actions would be received within the Indian context. After all that, either Heidi or I would say, "I just don't know the answer." and we'd be back to the old response of 42.
I feel that now. I am back in India facing more new and unique challenges and I don't know what the answer is. Life is too messy for simple answers, and yet I wish it were that simple--like the rote memorization Priya used to get a 20 out of 20 on her latest English test in school. I wish the answer was simply 42.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
I actually don't like new things
I've heard many college students say that they like to travel because they like to experience new things, they like getting outside their comfort zone, or they like the adventure of it all. I used to use these kinds of phrases as well when I was trying to explain why I like to travel, but I never felt satisfied with those answers. They sounded right, but I never felt right. And they aren't.
In returning to Coimbatore and Chavadi for the third time now I realize I actually love when new places become familiar. As I shared the village gossip about our neighbors with the new field studies students, showed them the shortcut to the second bus stop, and introduced them to my favorite saleswoman at my favorite store (Pushpam at Sree Ganapathi) I felt a certain joy.
It's hard for me to navigate in a new city. I get lonely when I don't know anyone in a place. I feel out of my comfort zone when I have a hard time communicating with locals. Matthew was kind enough to remind me yesterday how miserable he was when I came to India the first time.
The fun thing for me is to wander around one city long enough to know the place. I love having friends to visit or being a regular at a shop. I get such satisfaction from speaking in my Indian English, head bobble and all. So, it's not that I like new places. I like making new places familiar.
In returning to Coimbatore and Chavadi for the third time now I realize I actually love when new places become familiar. As I shared the village gossip about our neighbors with the new field studies students, showed them the shortcut to the second bus stop, and introduced them to my favorite saleswoman at my favorite store (Pushpam at Sree Ganapathi) I felt a certain joy.
It's hard for me to navigate in a new city. I get lonely when I don't know anyone in a place. I feel out of my comfort zone when I have a hard time communicating with locals. Matthew was kind enough to remind me yesterday how miserable he was when I came to India the first time.
The fun thing for me is to wander around one city long enough to know the place. I love having friends to visit or being a regular at a shop. I get such satisfaction from speaking in my Indian English, head bobble and all. So, it's not that I like new places. I like making new places familiar.
I'll make a good Indian wife yet
Whenever I did an awkward thing--like drop my clean, wet laundry on the dirt courtyard or go out to lunch with frizzy hair--Matthew would laugh at me. And in my frustration I'd say I'd never make a good Indian wife, and it's good I'll marry an American! In my mind there are three tasks that Jeeva does regularly that used to seem impossible to me: (1) Haul water (2) Wash laundry (3) Cook Indian food.
I've mastered the art of hauling water during my first stay in the village. I used to spill water all over myself while carrying those small jugs back and forth between the tap and the cistern. I'd watch with envy as Jeeva hauled the big jug of water on her hip and then gracefully bend down to pick up a small jug, never spilling a drop. After 2 months of village life I found that grace of water hauling so unique to Indian women.
However, when it came to laundry during my first stay in the village I'd abscond with my dirty clothes to the bathroom and while I showered I'd wash my clothes in a bucket. During my second stay in the village I think I finally mastered the task of doing my laundry. Thanks to Jill and her helpful tips I have learned the art of beating my laundry on a rock. You may be thinking to yourself, "Come on Liann how hard can it be?" Well, like many things in India (like starting that old kerosene stove)--what seems like a juvenile activity, is actually quite difficult and takes great skill.
To do laundry first I buy a small packet of soap powder, fill a bucket half full of water, and soak your clothes in that soapy water for about a half hour or so. I then haul the bucket of soapy clothes and a bucket of clean water to the large rock.
I take the item of clothing (a pair of pants for example) and use a bar of laundry soap and rub it up against the clothes. With pants I make sure to soap up the hem of the pants and the crotch. Then I lift the pants slightly again and again (sort of like kneading bread dough) to get the soap and water consistent all the way through the cloth. Then comes the fun part.
I whack the pants against the rock, a great stress reliever. I first whack the legs, then the top, and then fold them in half and whack the middle. As I whack the pants against the rock, I watch with satisfaction as the soapy water sprays off the pants, taking the dirt and grime of Indian life with it.
I then scoop clean water onto the pair of pants and whack again and again--this time trying to rid the garment of the soap. I do this twice until the water has fewer suds. I ring out the pants and hang them on one part of the line. When I finish all the clothes in the bucket I add some fabric softener to the clean water and let the clothes soak for five minutes. I ring the water out of the clothes one more time and hang them out on the line to dry.
The key to good laundry is doing it when you hear the whacking of clothes on rocks in your neighborhood. The women choose to wash the mornings the government tap is on and during short, cloudy portions of the afternoon, not during the heat of the day--which is when I usually think to do my laundry. They never seem to wash on a day it rains, never. So, when I hear that rhythmic whacking all around me I know it'd be a good laundry day.
The one seemingly impossible task before making a good villager's wife would be to make tasty Indian food. I have watched Jeeva day in and day out cook out of that small kitchen, power or no power. I've woken up many times to the smell of breakfast wondering how does one create such a beautiful scent. Maybe during my third stay here I'll learn to cook...maybe.
Unfortunately, even if I do I learn how to cook, there are tons of other daily tasks Jeeva does effortlessly that I may never master--like dunging the courtyard, sweeping the veranda just right, and running a tutoring program on her veranda in the evenings to list a few. I'm just glad I'll get to marry someone who is grateful I'm college educated even though I lack many practical life skills.
I've mastered the art of hauling water during my first stay in the village. I used to spill water all over myself while carrying those small jugs back and forth between the tap and the cistern. I'd watch with envy as Jeeva hauled the big jug of water on her hip and then gracefully bend down to pick up a small jug, never spilling a drop. After 2 months of village life I found that grace of water hauling so unique to Indian women.
However, when it came to laundry during my first stay in the village I'd abscond with my dirty clothes to the bathroom and while I showered I'd wash my clothes in a bucket. During my second stay in the village I think I finally mastered the task of doing my laundry. Thanks to Jill and her helpful tips I have learned the art of beating my laundry on a rock. You may be thinking to yourself, "Come on Liann how hard can it be?" Well, like many things in India (like starting that old kerosene stove)--what seems like a juvenile activity, is actually quite difficult and takes great skill.
To do laundry first I buy a small packet of soap powder, fill a bucket half full of water, and soak your clothes in that soapy water for about a half hour or so. I then haul the bucket of soapy clothes and a bucket of clean water to the large rock.
I take the item of clothing (a pair of pants for example) and use a bar of laundry soap and rub it up against the clothes. With pants I make sure to soap up the hem of the pants and the crotch. Then I lift the pants slightly again and again (sort of like kneading bread dough) to get the soap and water consistent all the way through the cloth. Then comes the fun part.
I whack the pants against the rock, a great stress reliever. I first whack the legs, then the top, and then fold them in half and whack the middle. As I whack the pants against the rock, I watch with satisfaction as the soapy water sprays off the pants, taking the dirt and grime of Indian life with it.
I then scoop clean water onto the pair of pants and whack again and again--this time trying to rid the garment of the soap. I do this twice until the water has fewer suds. I ring out the pants and hang them on one part of the line. When I finish all the clothes in the bucket I add some fabric softener to the clean water and let the clothes soak for five minutes. I ring the water out of the clothes one more time and hang them out on the line to dry.
The key to good laundry is doing it when you hear the whacking of clothes on rocks in your neighborhood. The women choose to wash the mornings the government tap is on and during short, cloudy portions of the afternoon, not during the heat of the day--which is when I usually think to do my laundry. They never seem to wash on a day it rains, never. So, when I hear that rhythmic whacking all around me I know it'd be a good laundry day.
The one seemingly impossible task before making a good villager's wife would be to make tasty Indian food. I have watched Jeeva day in and day out cook out of that small kitchen, power or no power. I've woken up many times to the smell of breakfast wondering how does one create such a beautiful scent. Maybe during my third stay here I'll learn to cook...maybe.
Unfortunately, even if I do I learn how to cook, there are tons of other daily tasks Jeeva does effortlessly that I may never master--like dunging the courtyard, sweeping the veranda just right, and running a tutoring program on her veranda in the evenings to list a few. I'm just glad I'll get to marry someone who is grateful I'm college educated even though I lack many practical life skills.
A little less Christian Compassion please
While in Thailand I read a couple of books, one being the Painted Veil. I was touched by one particular passage. For those who have not read it I'll give a little background (a.k.a. spoil the ending--so don't read on if you don't want to know what happens!): The husband of the main character has died of cholera. It was not surprising since he had volunteered to work in an area of cholera epidemic. So the woman is in a sort of mourning period. There's a lot more to the story which makes her mourning both selfish and yet deep, but I won't try and rewrite the book right here. The main character had been volunteering at this nunnery while her husband was working as a doctor in the area. Now that her husband is dead one of the nuns tries to console her by talking about the love of God and the peace that is found in Christ, something like that anyway.
The main character wants to say the following (maybe even yell it out) to the nun but doesn’t:
"I'm a human being, unhappy and alone, and I want comfort and sympathy and encouragement: oh can't you turn a minute away from God and give me a little compassion; not Christian compassion that you have for all suffering things, but just human compassion for me?"
I sold the book to some bookstore in Koh Tao, but before I handed it over I wrote down that passage in my little black notebook. I'm afraid if I write much more it'll come out weird and preachy, but this passage really spoke to me. Having been on both the giving and receiving end of both that refined and somewhat impersonal "Christian compassion” and that more raw and maybe a bit clumsy "human compassion" I know what the author means. Sometimes you just need to set aside the all powerful, all knowing, invisible God figure for a minute and just connect human to human.
Even though it's been over a year since that moment I remember vividly sitting on the rug in Lindsay's bedroom telling her the painful details of my breakup. She listened and let the tears come to her eyes as I explained the deep sense of loss and feelings of helplessness that consumed my young heart at that time. She knew me, she knew the details of my life and because she had taken the time to know me she understood the deep pain I was feeling right then. She didn't undermine my feelings by telling me it'd all be OK in the end, she didn't remind me that the Lord had a plan for me, she didn't even try to give me some pep talk on the usefulness of trials. She just sat there on that rug and wept right along with me. Her tears meant more to me than any "comforting" words she could have uttered.
And she wasn't the only one that provided a bit of that human compassion. There was Kelvin who held me while I cried all over his shoulder trying not to get snot on his shirt. And Christine who listened night after night as I sifted through my emotions until I found happy ones. And Kjerstin who would call me out on my crap and then show love the best way she knew how--some delicious home cooked food and an insightful and meaningful compliment. And Veronica who coached me through it all—letting me know that I wasn’t alone.
I know, I know you're probably saying, but Liann what about John 11:35? John 11:35 states explicitly that after Mary tells Christ that her brother, Lazarus, has died, Jesus wept. Isn't that real Christian compassion Liann? Well yes, as I read that passage I recognize that maybe Christ understood what it was like to really connect with people, people who aren't so perfect. And maybe the author of the Painted Veil would say, stop shoving Jesus in my face and start connecting with me as Jesus would, mortal to mortal. And maybe I need to cut those trite little pep talks out of my Christian repertoire and just listen to the one that suffers and let her know her feelings are (as Christine would say) valid. It would mean I'd have to live in the moment with that person as Lindsay had lived in that moment with me. And then after living that moment eventually we could together bring Christ into the picture and allow him to do what he does best, provide hope for the future.
The main character wants to say the following (maybe even yell it out) to the nun but doesn’t:
"I'm a human being, unhappy and alone, and I want comfort and sympathy and encouragement: oh can't you turn a minute away from God and give me a little compassion; not Christian compassion that you have for all suffering things, but just human compassion for me?"
I sold the book to some bookstore in Koh Tao, but before I handed it over I wrote down that passage in my little black notebook. I'm afraid if I write much more it'll come out weird and preachy, but this passage really spoke to me. Having been on both the giving and receiving end of both that refined and somewhat impersonal "Christian compassion” and that more raw and maybe a bit clumsy "human compassion" I know what the author means. Sometimes you just need to set aside the all powerful, all knowing, invisible God figure for a minute and just connect human to human.
Even though it's been over a year since that moment I remember vividly sitting on the rug in Lindsay's bedroom telling her the painful details of my breakup. She listened and let the tears come to her eyes as I explained the deep sense of loss and feelings of helplessness that consumed my young heart at that time. She knew me, she knew the details of my life and because she had taken the time to know me she understood the deep pain I was feeling right then. She didn't undermine my feelings by telling me it'd all be OK in the end, she didn't remind me that the Lord had a plan for me, she didn't even try to give me some pep talk on the usefulness of trials. She just sat there on that rug and wept right along with me. Her tears meant more to me than any "comforting" words she could have uttered.
And she wasn't the only one that provided a bit of that human compassion. There was Kelvin who held me while I cried all over his shoulder trying not to get snot on his shirt. And Christine who listened night after night as I sifted through my emotions until I found happy ones. And Kjerstin who would call me out on my crap and then show love the best way she knew how--some delicious home cooked food and an insightful and meaningful compliment. And Veronica who coached me through it all—letting me know that I wasn’t alone.
I know, I know you're probably saying, but Liann what about John 11:35? John 11:35 states explicitly that after Mary tells Christ that her brother, Lazarus, has died, Jesus wept. Isn't that real Christian compassion Liann? Well yes, as I read that passage I recognize that maybe Christ understood what it was like to really connect with people, people who aren't so perfect. And maybe the author of the Painted Veil would say, stop shoving Jesus in my face and start connecting with me as Jesus would, mortal to mortal. And maybe I need to cut those trite little pep talks out of my Christian repertoire and just listen to the one that suffers and let her know her feelings are (as Christine would say) valid. It would mean I'd have to live in the moment with that person as Lindsay had lived in that moment with me. And then after living that moment eventually we could together bring Christ into the picture and allow him to do what he does best, provide hope for the future.
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