[struggling to understand]

men can wear their lungies (?) looped, showing off their knees. it’s a method to beat the heat. women, however are draped in beautiful fabric, leaving only a small portion of their mid-back uncovered. men can buy liquor, beer, cigarettes… women can’t. we shouldn’t walk into the bars at all. and then… even though the method to sterilize men is so simple, so quick, it is women who must be cut and cut and cut. we will rip a woman’s body open, stick our hands and metal instruments in… ripping and tearing parts of them. i can’t understand.

today i high-fived the young boy whose mother own our guest house.  a friend mumbled “inappropriate” under his breath, and i glared angrily in response. i thought he was joking… or being, idk. later… after dinner plates and tea mugs had been cleared, after the majority of my fellow students had retired to study quietly in their brightly painted rooms, i asked him to clarify. we spent the next hour, speaking in the strangest mix of spanish in english, around the very kid who sparked the conversation, about gender-based cultural expectations.

i’m frustrated. i don’t have the words to frame my frustration, not even in my head. there’s no way then, that i could flesh out an explanation for others. i’m just… sad, and tired. i told Josh the situation was “wearisome.” it’s more than that though.  on one hand, my fury about not being able to high five a kid is ethnocentric. i want to be able to do what i want, how i want, where i want… i want my culture to be the culture of the world. which is clearly wrong. especially because my native culture is so very broken. but it’s also fair too. i’m not just angry about the cultural differences… i’m angry because i’m a woman, and that makes us all the same. me and my staunch american accent and ways and every other woman.

i don’t know. i’m just going to stop. i need to conceptualize this… i just, can’t.

[being a social worker]

I’d never considered myself a social worker.  I mean, yes, I was going to school for social work, and yes, I’d previously been employed by a child welfare (read: social work) institution, but I was not a social worker.  Lately though, everything I say sounds like I ripped it from a social work textbook.  Seriously, if I could record myself, I’d probably end up gagging & eventually puking printed pages with clinical jargon.  I can’t stop thinking about feelings, and cultural background, and long-term-social impact. It’s lame, but not wholly unnecessary.  It’s probably good that I find myself asking these things.  It means, maybe, that I’m in school for the right thing.  But, I feel out of place.  And unrecognizable (to myself).

I want to ask, “when did I become like this?”  I know the answer though, I’ve always been this way. I’ve just always been surrounded by people like me, I’d never been different.  Here, I am.  It’s a blessing really. To be here, surrounded by people who are “them.” This is the beauty of a transdiciplinary experience.  I’d never considered, in dreaming of collaboration with other fields, that more than the subject matter (I mean even the language) is different.

At times I feel… lost. Alone. Ostracized.  This is rare though. Mostly I feel accepted, and comfortably out of control.  I know that most everyone here knows more about public health than I do, and because of that, I feel comfortable sitting back. I listen a lot here.  I read a lot. I try to take it all in.  And I am.  Each day, I find I stand on firmer academic ground. I am beginning to know the jargon, and though I know this whole country speaks a different language, it no longer seems like my peers/cohorts do as well.

What an incredible opportunity! To learn… and at the same time, to teach (that maybe social work isn’t all touchy-feel-grossness, that maybe we are able to listen, that we have an important perspective too).

That’s all for now folks.

[monkeys]

this is how it went down:
i was downstairs, checkin’ on the laundry (which i have to do cuz i don’t have luggage still). as i head upstairs, i’m met with screams: “epi there are MONKEYS.” i’m like “what? whatever.” until i see them: sitting, opening candy, jumping over stairwells. then i remember… I’M on a stairwell. i scream “monkeys monkeys everywhere” and sprint down the stairs. the only time i move faster is when someone issues an alert: “free cookies.” i love cookies.  anyway, i run, screaming about monkeys.  i’m worried because my laptop and shoes are on the floor with the monkeys. oh, and so are my friends. full disclosure? my biggest worry was my shoes. they’re my only pair and i have larger feet than almost everyone on the project.  i’m not even sure india makes shoes in my giant size.

my worrying was interrupted by screams from the floor above; “rabies!” “give them food” “no don’t, they won’t leave.” ah, the monkeys were attacking. they rejected the human’s peace offerings of pomegranates and orange peels, opting to steal candy instead. i felt bad for my friends upstairs, but let fear overrule my care for them. i’ve hated monkeys since kenya.  people were coming out of their rooms, offering suggestions… mostly to no avail.

but then… our savior, house dog caught wind of monkey shenanigans. our knight in furry armor barked to alert his neighborhood homedogs who, arriving with barks and growls galore, chased the vermin away.the monkeys left, the pups did a once over of the grounds and settled down for a nap.

eventually someone found us huddled in a screaming, sweating mass. laughing, this beautiful beautiful man donated a monkey stick, instructing us to hit the beasts the next time they showed their potentially diseased faces. we did some practice swings, lured the dog to our floor, and settled back at our seats to “study.” so that’s me now… cocky, with a monkey stick.  &about my wimpy behavior? i am not even ashamed: #rabiesfree for the WIN.

[doing nothing, as a way of doing something?]

I didn’t know what to do.

Seeing our skin color, clothes… hearing our English words, a gaggle of children disguised as beggars ran towards us. There’s no exaggeration there. They literally ran. They began begging us for money, for food; touching our feet, their lips; grabbing our arms, hands, begging.

We didn’t give them anything.  Not even the girl, with the child perched on her hip.  I wouldn’t have been able to resist, but I’d already made the mistake of giving to a beggar before. It doesn’t make them go away, as I’d hoped and hoped and hoped.  Instead, it makes them beg harder, want more.

I’m a social worker. Or, maybe, we’re all social workers.  Maybe social work is only striving to even a playing field. I wanted to help, but in this case, the only way to help was to do nothing.  That, the idea of doing nothing I mean, clashed with my American-ism. The land of the great, milk and honey, new Rome… whatever you want to call us, you cannot deny that we are powerful. We can save the world. We can. With enough money, and enough democracy, and maybe some technologies and free shoes, we can… ruin everything.  Did you know that in many cases those child beggars you see aren’t begging for themselves? There’s the equivalent of a pimp controlling them, enslaving them.  Sometimes these little ones are maimed to bring in more money.  Sometimes children are ripped from their mother’s arms; rotated as a beggar’s prop.  These beggars “can” buy themselves back from their pimp-if-you-will, but it’s often impossible. They are charged for food, protection, and clothing in addition to whatever their starting cost.  These charges are often set to make freedom just out of reach. Giving money to these babies (what else can we call them?) is giving money to a slave driver. It’s supporting a dirty profession.  You shouldn’t do it.

And yet… what if everyone stopped giving? Slave drivers, pimps, whatever… these (usually) men are protecting these little ones (even if from everyone but themselves).  What happens when the business runs dry? And what of the many become accustomed to a life of begging?  And don’t these young ones have a quota to reach? What of that? Should we do it?

The answer, of course, has to be no. We have to do better, aim bigger. But, what will that do to help the child with a child on her hip who wouldn’t stop kissing my friend’s shoulder?  Public health and social work aren’t so different, I think.  At the end of it all, we often find ourselves making decisions that work to answer a simple question: Who should we help? People or a person?

[on being a foreigner]

“You speak-a the english?” “Speak english or go home!” “We don’t want YOUR kind here.” “We speak english in this country HOMBRE.” “I’m sorry, I just can’t understand your Mexican accent.  Or is that spanglish? I can habla spanglish.” “[insert, angry, threatening stare]”

Even as a kid, hearing stuff like this from friend, family and/or stranger, has made me cringe. On my boldest days, I’d say something, kindly or angrily. Others, I’d glare with all the reproach I could muster. And there were also days  where I’d simply look down, and move away quickly.

I assumed it must be difficult for foreigners in my home, but I never really understood.  Until May 27, 2011. On that day, en route to Chennai… I forgot my bags in Delhi, and flew with only a backpack to Chennai.  I made a mistake. A stupid mistake, but a mistake. I’ve made mistakes before.  I’m prone to them.  Honestly, I’ve found that they’re no big deal.  Make a few calls, pay a few bucks, wait a few days… and then, resolved.  This is what I expected.  Instead… well, let me tell the story.

It started in Delhi.  We (I was traveling with two others) didn’t know where to go.  We asked person after person after person.  For our entire layover, we were shuffled from desk to desk to desk to desk to… round and round and round.  Each time, we struggled to bridge the language barrier, contending with accents and regional differences in word choice.  Eventually, we arrived where we needed to be, and hurried to assume our seats.  I was frustrated. I was so used to being understood; secretly, I was grateful that we’d made our flight safely, that in only hours, I would be safely cocooned among those speaking my language.

It was in Chennai that we realized our error. I approached desk after desk asking for help, eventually stumbling across the right person, or at least the person with the right forms. She gave us a piece of paper with two numbers, told us to call them in the morning. Good luck and goodbye and we were gone.

[fastforward through forms and copies and faxes and phone calls and emails and lawyers and notaries]

It’s been a little over a week since that day. We still don’t have our luggage, but at least now, our luggage has made it to Chennai.  This was not my doing.  Our professors/our partner ICTPH acted as our bridge between cultures, airlines, customs officials and language.

The luggage actually isn’t my point.  Presumably, I’ll get my luggage (some day). And in any case, I’m not nearly as worried about that as I am eager to end personal embarrassment and to stop being a burden to those I’m here to learn from/assist.  I want to blend in. I want to be like everyone else. I want to be able to depend on myself, finally, again.  And, those feelings… I understand now.  Not completely, because I had Ramesh and Ravi and ICTPH to advocate for me, to speak for me; additionally, I know I’m only here for weeks. August 6th, barring catastrophes, will find me waking in my own bed, in my own home, in my own country. I will step off a plane and be greeted in English, language of… well, me. Because of those things, I’m blessed, or lucky, call it whatever.  But even with blessings and luck, I was lost. And that’s what I understand. The fear, the embarrassment, the anger at loss of pride/face, the exhaustion created from holding back tears, from the effort expending trying to appear brave.

I’m grateful to ICTPH and my professors for going above and beyond, I’m grateful to my classmates for their empathetic responses, to my fellow travelers for their humor.  Finally? I’m grateful for lost baggage; I will never again look down, never again call ‘a glare’ my ‘stance against discrimination.’ I am eager to be free of this experience, to have it behind me, but on my honor, I will never forget it.