This week in media Laura Schlessinger said the n-word and a hate crime was committed against a muslim cab driver in lower Manhattan. However, depending on ones media outlet of choice, these stories were broadcasted, subjectified, glorified, or ignored demonstrating the way media is used as a venue to both control and liberate the masses. The trends of the blogosphere, where opinion trumps objectivism, seem to have infiltrated mainstream media into two explicitly polarized spheres with an increasing presence. In fact, there's TV shows and radio programs with the sole purpose of dissecting media, looking for the way programs and commentators contradict themselves and present radicalized opinion as mere fact. Yet this very conglomerated controlling entity has the power to liberate--it has driven populations to end wars and attract international attention during oppressive regimes. With new forms of information sharing, there is shift in the way society and media interact and the way we inform ourselves and with what tools. I view the current state of the media with a certain allure and mystery that I am trying to understand as a student striving to influence others. Though I am commonly irritated by the trends of social media in my generation I am wondering how this can be used as a tool for social change and to what extent. My interest is distributed equally between radio, television and film, as I admire figures such as Ed Murrow, Jon Stewart, and Julia Bacha and view each type of media as a mechanism for social change.
One of my favorite blogs is called Aid Watch
http://aidwatchers.com/
After I graduated High School in 2009 I embarked on a trip around the world that focused on the study of varios development issues. I made this video as a culmination of my experience abroad.
http://vimeo.com/11820001
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
My Last Time Riding ANYthing with 4 legs
Ever since I realized that clouds weren’t made of marsh mellows and saw a clip from an episode of 60 minutes of some amazingly pre-camera phone era shot of an airplane spiraling into the ground, my preferred methods of travel have always been those that require wheels rather than wings. And, though I do have my dose of Lorezopam pre-flights nowadays, I flew enough this year to put me on a high-risk list, making this trip one that would more than likely remain on the ground.
Prior to today’s travels, my knowledge of the Greyhound Bus system was limited to recent canadian greyhound murder story and the dog that my moms old homosexual hair dresser had that would run around like a rat with bits of human hair all over it’s body. Hardly excitable, but being both frugal and freaked of flying, I took a chance. Besides it was only 10 and a half hours, with NO stops or changes. BULLSHIT GREYHOUND!!!
Admittedly the first mistake was mine. It said on the “e-ticket” very clearly that the ticket need to be printed, and thankfully Kailee was able to sprint, yes kailee sprinting, to the nearest hotel and produce a paper copy. Apparently my blackberry and smile weren’t enough… After boarding the hound, I quickly realized how seriously my driver took his job, first noticing his holster, no HOLISTER Charlie, fully equip with two pens, a pocket knife, and an ambiguously shaped case that could have either been a hand-gun or his tampons. He hopped on bored and checked the bathroom for any homeless people that may have wanted to hitch a ride to Canada and gave us a safety briefing where he reminded us not to smoke, masturbate, or talk on cell phones for more than 30 seconds. And so we began…
The first four hours were easy. I slept, wrote, and peed 3 times almost without missing. Then came every tiny town in between Syracuse and Buffalo on and off the “stop-less” greyhound. I listened to the sounds of children, children being beaten, children reacting to being beaten, the enormous woman next to me snoring, (I wish I was kidding, really) and the sounds and smells of people opening and closing the restroom door. The only perks of this journey have been the outlets available for every seat, which enabled me to edit my bonnaroo footage and create this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mY59BZEuRK8
Then we get to Rochester and I realize that the first douche-bag driver took my 3rd ticket instead of my first one. But thankfully I have all of this information on my black-berry and there is a ticket counter which would of course be able to look up my information and verify my story, especially since it would have been impossible for me to have duplicated my ticket since every ticket has a name on it and everyone shows there passport to get on the bus. One would think…
I get up to the front of the line and I tell the woman that the man-over-there (literally he was right there) took my incorrect ticket and she laughed and said “likely story” and sent me to ticket counter minutes before my bus pulled away. The unhappy woman who looks like that cross-dresser from the Wedding Singer at the ticket counter, says “sorry I can’t reprint tickets” as I’m showing her my itinerary on my phone. I buy a new ticket and try to be angry and say that I’m going to do something like I’ve seen my mom do when the room service is wrong for the 3rd time. But instead as I’m walking to get on the bus, I see the nice man reach for my luggage and just start crying, hysterically, and this overweigh black luggage man is so confused yet so kind and asks me what’s wrong and if I’m ok. And at this point there’s no stopping, I’m about to embrace this stranger and cry into his arms, when the ticket lady comes over and tells me I can get my money back. But of course my charge that was made 2 minutes prior required a 20% fine, but at least I’m on. Everyone on the bus, having seen this all happen, invites my on warmly. And in the end, I got a whole row to myself.
My cousins rehearsal dinner started two hours ago and I’m sitting at border patrol waiting for the a-hole on my bus who decided to bring too much booze across the border. It’s 8:30pm and I haven’t eaten since the veggie burger from hell at Burger King at 10 am. My arrival time was initially 6:15 and I’m still 2 hours away….rarr BORDER PATROL GET A CLUE: all of the marijuana is running the other direction!!! It’s amazing how the question What are you bringing? can make you feel like El madre of a drug cartel.
Needless to say this is my last trip with greyhound, and it should be yours too. Feel free to write them hate mail and mass murder every grey dog you see. Any suggestions on how to get from Toronto to Indianapolis on sunday?
Prior to today’s travels, my knowledge of the Greyhound Bus system was limited to recent canadian greyhound murder story and the dog that my moms old homosexual hair dresser had that would run around like a rat with bits of human hair all over it’s body. Hardly excitable, but being both frugal and freaked of flying, I took a chance. Besides it was only 10 and a half hours, with NO stops or changes. BULLSHIT GREYHOUND!!!
Admittedly the first mistake was mine. It said on the “e-ticket” very clearly that the ticket need to be printed, and thankfully Kailee was able to sprint, yes kailee sprinting, to the nearest hotel and produce a paper copy. Apparently my blackberry and smile weren’t enough… After boarding the hound, I quickly realized how seriously my driver took his job, first noticing his holster, no HOLISTER Charlie, fully equip with two pens, a pocket knife, and an ambiguously shaped case that could have either been a hand-gun or his tampons. He hopped on bored and checked the bathroom for any homeless people that may have wanted to hitch a ride to Canada and gave us a safety briefing where he reminded us not to smoke, masturbate, or talk on cell phones for more than 30 seconds. And so we began…
The first four hours were easy. I slept, wrote, and peed 3 times almost without missing. Then came every tiny town in between Syracuse and Buffalo on and off the “stop-less” greyhound. I listened to the sounds of children, children being beaten, children reacting to being beaten, the enormous woman next to me snoring, (I wish I was kidding, really) and the sounds and smells of people opening and closing the restroom door. The only perks of this journey have been the outlets available for every seat, which enabled me to edit my bonnaroo footage and create this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mY59BZEuRK8
Then we get to Rochester and I realize that the first douche-bag driver took my 3rd ticket instead of my first one. But thankfully I have all of this information on my black-berry and there is a ticket counter which would of course be able to look up my information and verify my story, especially since it would have been impossible for me to have duplicated my ticket since every ticket has a name on it and everyone shows there passport to get on the bus. One would think…
I get up to the front of the line and I tell the woman that the man-over-there (literally he was right there) took my incorrect ticket and she laughed and said “likely story” and sent me to ticket counter minutes before my bus pulled away. The unhappy woman who looks like that cross-dresser from the Wedding Singer at the ticket counter, says “sorry I can’t reprint tickets” as I’m showing her my itinerary on my phone. I buy a new ticket and try to be angry and say that I’m going to do something like I’ve seen my mom do when the room service is wrong for the 3rd time. But instead as I’m walking to get on the bus, I see the nice man reach for my luggage and just start crying, hysterically, and this overweigh black luggage man is so confused yet so kind and asks me what’s wrong and if I’m ok. And at this point there’s no stopping, I’m about to embrace this stranger and cry into his arms, when the ticket lady comes over and tells me I can get my money back. But of course my charge that was made 2 minutes prior required a 20% fine, but at least I’m on. Everyone on the bus, having seen this all happen, invites my on warmly. And in the end, I got a whole row to myself.
My cousins rehearsal dinner started two hours ago and I’m sitting at border patrol waiting for the a-hole on my bus who decided to bring too much booze across the border. It’s 8:30pm and I haven’t eaten since the veggie burger from hell at Burger King at 10 am. My arrival time was initially 6:15 and I’m still 2 hours away….rarr BORDER PATROL GET A CLUE: all of the marijuana is running the other direction!!! It’s amazing how the question What are you bringing? can make you feel like El madre of a drug cartel.
Needless to say this is my last trip with greyhound, and it should be yours too. Feel free to write them hate mail and mass murder every grey dog you see. Any suggestions on how to get from Toronto to Indianapolis on sunday?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Home is whenever I'm with you...who?
Each time I fly into the Indianapolis Airport I’m hardly overwhelmed with a feeling of being home. Though all the collections contrived by my American heritage are housed in this droopy state, the only feelings of excitement come at the thought of my family and food (food that is, of course, not prepared by my family.) My only acquaintances are juvenile playmates or the hobo I occasionally smoke crack with near my dads fire pit, and by hobo I mean my three year old sister and by smoke crack I mean blow-bubbles.
As the seemingly outgoing and friendly person that I glorify myself to be, I find myself lonely and bored, coloring my day by cataloging episodes of the Colbert Report and even reading Aid Watch blogs, secretly wishing I had someone to share these habits with. Perhaps this comes as a result of a over-stimulating year, where I was always preoccupied by censoring my beliefs and T-shirts as I was living in unfamiliar and unwelcoming places, where miscommunications resulted at times in Indian host moms asking forgiveness for your misshapen nan bread in front of a shrine of Blue Gods.
Thinking Beyond Borders should probably include some seminar on “Returning to social situations” or “How to small talk like Gandhi” because I have apparently lost all social ability, never had it in the first place, or I am just a mean person, which isn’t worth disposing of… That knowing your audience thing, when it comes to everything, is totally underrated! My failure to learn this guiding communication skill takes responsibility for my current predicament. This may teeter on sounding like a cry for friends, and it is, but these 5 days of solitude have produced some benefits. I have girlified my room with posters of Justin Beiber and my boyfriend (really, is there really a difference?) and read exactly 37 articles on the Gulf Oil spill.
It’s a shame that the oil in the gulf isn’t the eating kind, cause then it would make frying up sea food that much easier. And have any of you all seen the footage of the oil gushing out of the bottom of the gulf? Well, my first though was that it makes Michael Mores period look like a leaking faucet, and second that Wyclef Jean and Al Gore are about to co-write a song about pelicans and sea turtles. Just saying, I said it was coming…
And in between sticky-tacking my walls and a quest to find local food, I have gone to yoga class to center my clustered life and make my butt look like it did sophomore year of high school (is it too early to make jokes like that?) And each time I walk into my studio I revert back to a memory of myself doing yoga in India.
Highly anticipating taking part in this ancient practice in the land of it’s roots I walked in to my yoga class in India ready to impress the teacher and work away months of too much Chinese food. My teacher couldn’t have looked more different that the blond Barbie doll instructor I go to in Indy; it was a older looking Indian man dressed in a suit with a belly that looked more like Buddha’s than my Barbie yoga guru. Upon entering the class he quickly mocked us for our attire and how it paralleled the West’s butchering of this practice that had been coated with a US stamp of efficiency and had been popularized my Madonna’s butt-hole. In that class we began and middled and ended with sweat-less breathing exercises including one that me and my American yoga friend may have gotten in trouble for. With his thick Indian accent he instructed us to raise our hands up and down while doing some sort of power breath making a “ha” sound which quickly evolved into uncontrollable laughter and confusion on our part where the “ha’s” never seemed to end.
And though I never got the workout I probably needed that day, I still find myself nostalgic about that moment of joy when I walk into yoga and feel more like I’m in a Billy Banks video than a yoga studio. Between the excessive apparel, the blaring hip-hop, and the hot instructor shouting out ancient postures and proverbs like a drill sergeant, something feels slightly, hmm, American about all of this. And I can honestly say, I love it.
When I think of this transition from oh-my-god-the-word-is-so-big life, to oh-my-god-there’s-nothing-to-do life, I need to think more on these terms. To stop obsessing about the particulars of the friends I choose, the food I east, and the crack I smoke, but to embrace these American touches—as the death penalty is still legal in my future home state and who knows the penalties for claiming to be liberal in Texas.
JK Austin, luv yas!
As the seemingly outgoing and friendly person that I glorify myself to be, I find myself lonely and bored, coloring my day by cataloging episodes of the Colbert Report and even reading Aid Watch blogs, secretly wishing I had someone to share these habits with. Perhaps this comes as a result of a over-stimulating year, where I was always preoccupied by censoring my beliefs and T-shirts as I was living in unfamiliar and unwelcoming places, where miscommunications resulted at times in Indian host moms asking forgiveness for your misshapen nan bread in front of a shrine of Blue Gods.
Thinking Beyond Borders should probably include some seminar on “Returning to social situations” or “How to small talk like Gandhi” because I have apparently lost all social ability, never had it in the first place, or I am just a mean person, which isn’t worth disposing of… That knowing your audience thing, when it comes to everything, is totally underrated! My failure to learn this guiding communication skill takes responsibility for my current predicament. This may teeter on sounding like a cry for friends, and it is, but these 5 days of solitude have produced some benefits. I have girlified my room with posters of Justin Beiber and my boyfriend (really, is there really a difference?) and read exactly 37 articles on the Gulf Oil spill.
It’s a shame that the oil in the gulf isn’t the eating kind, cause then it would make frying up sea food that much easier. And have any of you all seen the footage of the oil gushing out of the bottom of the gulf? Well, my first though was that it makes Michael Mores period look like a leaking faucet, and second that Wyclef Jean and Al Gore are about to co-write a song about pelicans and sea turtles. Just saying, I said it was coming…
And in between sticky-tacking my walls and a quest to find local food, I have gone to yoga class to center my clustered life and make my butt look like it did sophomore year of high school (is it too early to make jokes like that?) And each time I walk into my studio I revert back to a memory of myself doing yoga in India.
Highly anticipating taking part in this ancient practice in the land of it’s roots I walked in to my yoga class in India ready to impress the teacher and work away months of too much Chinese food. My teacher couldn’t have looked more different that the blond Barbie doll instructor I go to in Indy; it was a older looking Indian man dressed in a suit with a belly that looked more like Buddha’s than my Barbie yoga guru. Upon entering the class he quickly mocked us for our attire and how it paralleled the West’s butchering of this practice that had been coated with a US stamp of efficiency and had been popularized my Madonna’s butt-hole. In that class we began and middled and ended with sweat-less breathing exercises including one that me and my American yoga friend may have gotten in trouble for. With his thick Indian accent he instructed us to raise our hands up and down while doing some sort of power breath making a “ha” sound which quickly evolved into uncontrollable laughter and confusion on our part where the “ha’s” never seemed to end.
And though I never got the workout I probably needed that day, I still find myself nostalgic about that moment of joy when I walk into yoga and feel more like I’m in a Billy Banks video than a yoga studio. Between the excessive apparel, the blaring hip-hop, and the hot instructor shouting out ancient postures and proverbs like a drill sergeant, something feels slightly, hmm, American about all of this. And I can honestly say, I love it.
When I think of this transition from oh-my-god-the-word-is-so-big life, to oh-my-god-there’s-nothing-to-do life, I need to think more on these terms. To stop obsessing about the particulars of the friends I choose, the food I east, and the crack I smoke, but to embrace these American touches—as the death penalty is still legal in my future home state and who knows the penalties for claiming to be liberal in Texas.
JK Austin, luv yas!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
AfriKa-not just a Collection at American Apparel
To all young travelers looking for enlightenment, perspective, or maybe just a lay in the the "Global South" i give you some preemptive advise to avoid the transitional "culture shock"--stop in Plettenberh Bay, South Africa on your way home. It's a dream destination for those who enjoy whipping their asses with gold flacked toilet paper and use their designer cameras to photograph the less fortunate on "township tours." It's a place where the first and third worlds collide and where words like "tolerate" and "seperate" are commonplace in describing their interaction with each other. From their multi-million rand homes mostly vacationing families can see the destitute villages just down the hill, and eye soar, interupting the near perfect view of the Bay. Houses with those high-tech binoculars set on tripods like a telescope point towards the ocean with the hopes of maybe spotting the occasional whale or dolphin, never orientated backwards to get a closer look at the poverty and despair so near. DiSPARITY at its finest. see where i'm going?
I spent my time in two different neighborhoods each with its own set of roofs--one with roofs made of green tile and the other with roofs made of sheet medal and plastic. I always new where i was because of what song subconsciously began to hum--"little boxes on the hill side....", i was near the green roofs. The various writings of Tupac Shakur-- i was in the townships. It's amazing that out of most of the squatter shacks come sounds systems that one would think would exceed the cost of the timber and sheet metal it takes to build the entire structure. I swear if Alicia Keys wrote a song where she explicitly addressed the stigma of HIV/AIDS she would end the pandemic.
I spent my days in Kurland village, a township established the 1970's to by the government to maintain voting power, shadowing a home-based care worker who worked with patients with HIV/AIS, TB and other ailments. We were conducting a survey on the NGO we were working with in order to have accurate numbers of time spent with different category patients so that they could increase funding. I pricked fingers and checked blood pressure, watched as my care worker cleaned feces off of the dead and bathed the dying. I saw hunger and sickness, poor and poorer...until 3 o'clock.
Then i headed into The River Club where i was living with a white single mother who upon giving us a tour of Plett in her BMW informed us that "People really just like their own kind." We ate steak and potatoes and were reintroduced to so many of the comforts that were distantly familiar--hot showers, a pantry, the english language... We would sit around the dinner table at night and tell stories from our days in the townships and my host-mother would respond with, "It's amazing that all of this goes on in my backyard--i had no idea." Ignorance. Misunderstanding. Judgement. Prejudice.
Hotels in the shape of sailboats and water spick-its supporting 20 families. Conversations of literature and travel and wondering if there will be dinner. Bank statements and government grants. Like a haunting tip-toe you can hear the pitter patter of rich, poor, rich poor... side by side yet on different sides of the body. Polarized. Marginalized. Unrealized.
this whole Citizen Cope thing wasn't really intentional but the pattern of misunderstanding made it easier for each side to justify itself, in a way that can be represented through a chain reaction of self-defense.
Im sitting in my NYC hostel semi-thankful for the KFC and ignorance i saw in South Africa. time square isn't as shocking as it would have been. tbc....
I spent my time in two different neighborhoods each with its own set of roofs--one with roofs made of green tile and the other with roofs made of sheet medal and plastic. I always new where i was because of what song subconsciously began to hum--"little boxes on the hill side....", i was near the green roofs. The various writings of Tupac Shakur-- i was in the townships. It's amazing that out of most of the squatter shacks come sounds systems that one would think would exceed the cost of the timber and sheet metal it takes to build the entire structure. I swear if Alicia Keys wrote a song where she explicitly addressed the stigma of HIV/AIDS she would end the pandemic.
I spent my days in Kurland village, a township established the 1970's to by the government to maintain voting power, shadowing a home-based care worker who worked with patients with HIV/AIS, TB and other ailments. We were conducting a survey on the NGO we were working with in order to have accurate numbers of time spent with different category patients so that they could increase funding. I pricked fingers and checked blood pressure, watched as my care worker cleaned feces off of the dead and bathed the dying. I saw hunger and sickness, poor and poorer...until 3 o'clock.
Then i headed into The River Club where i was living with a white single mother who upon giving us a tour of Plett in her BMW informed us that "People really just like their own kind." We ate steak and potatoes and were reintroduced to so many of the comforts that were distantly familiar--hot showers, a pantry, the english language... We would sit around the dinner table at night and tell stories from our days in the townships and my host-mother would respond with, "It's amazing that all of this goes on in my backyard--i had no idea." Ignorance. Misunderstanding. Judgement. Prejudice.
Hotels in the shape of sailboats and water spick-its supporting 20 families. Conversations of literature and travel and wondering if there will be dinner. Bank statements and government grants. Like a haunting tip-toe you can hear the pitter patter of rich, poor, rich poor... side by side yet on different sides of the body. Polarized. Marginalized. Unrealized.
this whole Citizen Cope thing wasn't really intentional but the pattern of misunderstanding made it easier for each side to justify itself, in a way that can be represented through a chain reaction of self-defense.
Im sitting in my NYC hostel semi-thankful for the KFC and ignorance i saw in South Africa. time square isn't as shocking as it would have been. tbc....
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
OMMMMMmmm
Only in India can walk out of your door to find people praying to shrines on street medians, men getting their beards touched up on the side walks, and a mix of camels, elephants, motor bikes and cars cruising the roads in sprawling cities with no traffic laws. Or if you're in a big city or near a World Heritage Site you might see sun-burnt tourist with smeared bindis on their heads wearing pujabi suits and walking around like their outfit some how makes them blend in better--a swarm of foreigners in traditional wear spotted in a city where more indian women are wearning t-shirts and jeans than Saris.
I have spent the past 2 nights in Jaipur, a capital city in north-western India, that attracts both indian and foreign tourist which leads me to the unlikely explanation that all their suitcases got mixed-up at the airport? Anyway it has been another challenging, exausting, and thought-provoking week. As i become less of a novelty and more of a Patel it has become easier to ask questions of faith, gender, and morals. Thankfully our post-dinner conversations have moved past me naming all 16 members of the family at their request to topics that are both a little more serious and harder to communicate. They we asking about american culture and i was responding in slow english with no articles and incorrect tenses and finally the topic of politics came up.
"Do you like Barack Obama," I asked followed by a unanimous "NOOOOO!"
"Why," I questioned "His ideas?"
"No he is BLACK man." My 22 year old sister said.
I was so taken back by their response. For a country that was advancing its development in the image of the West and specifically the US it was so puzzling that they were so dismissive of our president on the basis of race. "Our Chief Minister-white skin." She said. So in India not only do they "vote their caste, instead of cast their vote" but vote in accordance to skin color. I didn't really know what to say back. I could think of anything that could be communicated in simple english. So i blurted out something that i definitely don't believe that i said because i felt like i had to say something-"But...America, most powerful country in the world yes? Best country? We CHOOSE black man. Doesn't that say something?!!!" And then came the equally angry and proud Indian nationalism speech, "India culture best! India economy best! Indian people many intelligence!" I don't think I've ever defended hambergers and T-shirtd more in my life...
One night after arriving home late from seminar i was greeted my our anxious sisters waiting on the sidewalk waiving the ends of their head scarves in the direction of the temple. It's Thursday that means loooong temple day, i wish i had my period.... I walk to meet them and with angry looks on their faces i notice them making unclear gestures pointing to my head and i realize i don't have my head scarf for this exciting religions experience i am about to endure for the third time... One of my sister moves to walk back home and get one and i said "NO" and pulled the hood of my American Apparel sweatshirt over my head to make a DIY head cover. Some of them laughed, some of them sneered and then dragged me in to the temple and plopped me down indian-style. Then i was given a strand of prayer beads and instructed to recite "Hariom" over and over with each bead that passed through my fingers. As i went through the motions thoughtlessly, tired from a long day and anticipating my chore of mopping the temple floors after the service one of my sisters said something to me that caught my attention, "Say your gods name."
On the flight to India i was surprised to read that one of the Reason for Travel options on the demarcation sheet was "Spiritual Journey." I felt like i was in the Darjeeling Limited for a second, that the idea of traveling to India for some spiritual enlightenment was just something mocked in Hollywood or praised by L.A. fitness instructors turned yoga gurus. I could see how the non-violence, vegetarianism and funny looking gods that are a good decoration on expensive t-shirts that Hinduism praises could be appealing but when the same religious principles perpetuate practices like the caste system and womens oppression, poverty and religious intolerance i just wasnt confident admiring a practice that was overshadowed by so much evil.
So with the spiritual leader rattling off some Hindu scripture under a picture of a naked blue god i decided to do what was the closest thing i knew to praying, and began to say 'thank you'. For my parents and the curry i had eaten for lunch. for my hoodie and for my best friends. For everything i could think of that had led me to that moment sitting in the temple on the floor prayer beads at hand with people i could call my family all around me. and there it was...my moment of spirituality in india.
i wrote all of that so long ago but of course the internet connection wasnt working there so now, a month? later here it is. I am now in South Africa where the cultural difference couldn't be more different but many of the problems are the same. Here in Plettemburg Bay the disparity couldnt be more apparent. but i wont go there yet, while i am still processing india and you all are tired of my misspellings and syntax and blahh.
I DID the highest bungy jump in the world 648 feet! Don't tell my parents...
I have spent the past 2 nights in Jaipur, a capital city in north-western India, that attracts both indian and foreign tourist which leads me to the unlikely explanation that all their suitcases got mixed-up at the airport? Anyway it has been another challenging, exausting, and thought-provoking week. As i become less of a novelty and more of a Patel it has become easier to ask questions of faith, gender, and morals. Thankfully our post-dinner conversations have moved past me naming all 16 members of the family at their request to topics that are both a little more serious and harder to communicate. They we asking about american culture and i was responding in slow english with no articles and incorrect tenses and finally the topic of politics came up.
"Do you like Barack Obama," I asked followed by a unanimous "NOOOOO!"
"Why," I questioned "His ideas?"
"No he is BLACK man." My 22 year old sister said.
I was so taken back by their response. For a country that was advancing its development in the image of the West and specifically the US it was so puzzling that they were so dismissive of our president on the basis of race. "Our Chief Minister-white skin." She said. So in India not only do they "vote their caste, instead of cast their vote" but vote in accordance to skin color. I didn't really know what to say back. I could think of anything that could be communicated in simple english. So i blurted out something that i definitely don't believe that i said because i felt like i had to say something-"But...America, most powerful country in the world yes? Best country? We CHOOSE black man. Doesn't that say something?!!!" And then came the equally angry and proud Indian nationalism speech, "India culture best! India economy best! Indian people many intelligence!" I don't think I've ever defended hambergers and T-shirtd more in my life...
One night after arriving home late from seminar i was greeted my our anxious sisters waiting on the sidewalk waiving the ends of their head scarves in the direction of the temple. It's Thursday that means loooong temple day, i wish i had my period.... I walk to meet them and with angry looks on their faces i notice them making unclear gestures pointing to my head and i realize i don't have my head scarf for this exciting religions experience i am about to endure for the third time... One of my sister moves to walk back home and get one and i said "NO" and pulled the hood of my American Apparel sweatshirt over my head to make a DIY head cover. Some of them laughed, some of them sneered and then dragged me in to the temple and plopped me down indian-style. Then i was given a strand of prayer beads and instructed to recite "Hariom" over and over with each bead that passed through my fingers. As i went through the motions thoughtlessly, tired from a long day and anticipating my chore of mopping the temple floors after the service one of my sisters said something to me that caught my attention, "Say your gods name."
On the flight to India i was surprised to read that one of the Reason for Travel options on the demarcation sheet was "Spiritual Journey." I felt like i was in the Darjeeling Limited for a second, that the idea of traveling to India for some spiritual enlightenment was just something mocked in Hollywood or praised by L.A. fitness instructors turned yoga gurus. I could see how the non-violence, vegetarianism and funny looking gods that are a good decoration on expensive t-shirts that Hinduism praises could be appealing but when the same religious principles perpetuate practices like the caste system and womens oppression, poverty and religious intolerance i just wasnt confident admiring a practice that was overshadowed by so much evil.
So with the spiritual leader rattling off some Hindu scripture under a picture of a naked blue god i decided to do what was the closest thing i knew to praying, and began to say 'thank you'. For my parents and the curry i had eaten for lunch. for my hoodie and for my best friends. For everything i could think of that had led me to that moment sitting in the temple on the floor prayer beads at hand with people i could call my family all around me. and there it was...my moment of spirituality in india.
i wrote all of that so long ago but of course the internet connection wasnt working there so now, a month? later here it is. I am now in South Africa where the cultural difference couldn't be more different but many of the problems are the same. Here in Plettemburg Bay the disparity couldnt be more apparent. but i wont go there yet, while i am still processing india and you all are tired of my misspellings and syntax and blahh.
I DID the highest bungy jump in the world 648 feet! Don't tell my parents...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Table, Toothpaste and Subsidy
These three words, we were instructed, are English words that have been adopted by people living in Gujarat. The origins of the first two are parts of western culture that have infiltrated Indian Society precisely because most Indian families eat meals on the floor and use a certain tree bark to clean there teeth. But the question of the third can be explained less as a matter of practicality or necessity than one of influence and politics. India, which proudly boast its recent economic achievement, is under a lot pressure to feed its population of over a billion people while many of those people are climbing societal ladders and, with that, acquiring higher standards of living. So I wasn't surprised when i got to my homestay and upon taking a tour of my host fathers farm he showed off his Monsanto Genetically Modified Cotton that was subsidized by the Indian Government. We walked a little further on to the vast tabacco monoculture and he pulled out a "weed" by one of the plants and firmly told me to "tell Monsanto to fix this!" as if I had unlimited access to this seemingly untouchable multi-national corporation. This was my introduction to "small farming in India" which really seemed more like the endlessly erect corn fields i've seen my whole life driving in Indiana than the primitive picture of Indian agriculture i had painted in my mind. Eighty hectares of Monsanto, pesticides, machinery, and self-suicide seeds taking over rural india in the form of cash crops$$$$$$$$
That same day walking through the farm some women hunched over in vibrant saris in the distance caught my eye. My father, Daskaka--Gujarati for "uncle" (everyone's uncle*) pointed out that those people were "lower" and that all of his hired labor were, in fact, lower caste. Though this ancient practice of social stratification has been legally prohibited, it continues to drive and segregate society to this day. My family was a member of the highest caste, the Brahmins, who were those that could acquire "knowledge"or work as clergymen. And though my father hadn't made it past the 6th grade, his children had attended university and were striving to escape rural life and move there way into the "New India"--a world of Goldman-Sachs and Microsoft and T-shirts. He went on to say he paid his laborers 60 rupee a day (US $1.15) and he claimed that he abided by the Child Labor Laws which forbid children under the age of 15 to work. As I looked around, there were surely children working picking cotton and thinning tobacco and i couldn't help by be angry at this man who so easily could distribute his wealth more evenly and cultivate this land more lawfully. The laborers were filthy and many of them looked thin, ill and overworked so i was surprised when i learned that they actually live ABOVE the poverty line in india, which accounts for 80% of the population who lives under $2 a day. Adjusted for PPP these people made about $3 a day.
As the week went on i continued to encounter moments of prejudice and submission in both cases of sex and caste. One weekend night my sisters dressed me up in this sparkling red sari and bedazzled me with bangols and nose rings and we went to the small square outside the temple in our small town and began to dance the "Garba"--a traditional India circle dance. I noticed all of these people huddles around us on the ground wrapped in blankets with unkempt hair and dirty faces and i couldn't help but feel uncomfortable giddily dancing around with the upper caste knowing that there were people that couldn't--that didn't have the right to as lawful as it may have been. The last thing i want to do here is perpetuate and encourage this discrimination but how could i do that while still being "culturally sensitive." I didn't want to offend my host family who was (for the most part) being so great but i just couldn't ignore it.
Here more than anywhere else, i have noticed the line between "culture" and morality being blurred. Any seeming human injustice can be justified by a means of culture and religion. Why do i have to touch a mans feet (and put my face near his crotch) every time i meet one? Indian Culture. Why do my sisters have to give up there seats on the couch every time a man walks in? Indian culture. Did you get to choose your husband? No, arranged marriage is Indian culture. Why do I have to tell my family when i get my period? Because you are unclean and you can't go to temple or enter the kitchen--God says 'no.' Why do I have to vale my head at temple? Ramayana says so. Why don't you work on the farm everyday? We are high caste, this is Indian culture.
I couldn't help but be angry with my self for being so "stuck" on all of my American bias. Sure, i was uncomfortable with it but was that because it was wrong or just different? My family constantly told me i needed to be a "good Indian woman!" and that meant cooking and cleaning and (this one might be the most important) never being tired. As you all know 'organized' is not particularly a word i associate myself with, cooking isn't exactly my forte, and being passive and playing role is definitely something i've been constantly lashing out against my whole life, so you could see how this lifestyle would be different to say the least. And you should have seen their reactions when i told them i had (brace yourself) eaten an egg, or worse, a chicken. Or smoked a cigarette or tasted wine. And by far the most daunting, not have a religion! I felt like i was accepting and respecting so many of their cultural differences but they were just dismissing and hating on mine. They also have decided that wearing sunscreen is incredibly racist and my pregnant sister sneers at me everyday for me wanting to "no turn black." This reached a tipping point when one day i woke up 30 minutes late (7:30) and by sisters harassed me for being "lazy." And i just wanted to scream in their faces "I do what you tell me all day and do the same stupid fucking things to entertain all of YOU and make you laugh" but of course i didn't despite i could practically translate the remarks they were rattling off about me. And they hang a picture of Gandhi in their house...
But i had to make a decision about how to respond to all of this since my natural reaction was clearly formulated by my preconceived beliefs and imposing my own ideas or refusing to abide by theirs was both ignorant and disrespectful. So until i could make a decision i had to my surrender my beliefs and become a "good Indian women" and, with that, figure out what that really meant and felt like. When i changed my attitude i began to see things differently. One day, on women duty, i was cooking rotli with two of my married sisters and one who speaks decent English asked me if i liked cooking. I said yes, but i don't got to do it very often and then reciprocated the question. She put down the pan and spatula and with the most telling look in her eyes replied "It doesn't matter if i like or don't like--i have to do everyday." I had never thought that asking such a question could arise such emotion. It was my first experience of my sisters, who were all between the ages of 20-25 and married, honestly opening up to me about their lives. Daskaka challenged me as well one day, after some tough convincing, he took me to work in the rice patties and we all got right down in the mud with the laborers to plant rice in the morning sun. Daskaka and his wife also asked if they could bring their beds in to our room for sleeping, another aspect of the strong family bond that is so integrated into Indian Culture that felt comfortable to apart of. We watched endless hours of wedding videos, and they family cried as if these viewings were a weekly event and they had memorized every emotional moment. As i shared pictures of home, pictures of me and my "husband" at prom and me and my high school best friends before a Tokyo Drift themed dance, instead of being greeted with judgment and ridicule they responded with laughter and curiosity. Though my father did question "Why isn't your husband an Indian." I told him my best friend was, and i think that many have compensated despite that for some reason in all of the pictures i brought of me and Kailee we are either in some oddly compromising position or wrapped around body guards at M.I.A. concerts.
By the end of the week they had changed my Indian name. Initially they had called me Lily--"Tamaru nam Lily chhe" they had told me. One night attempting to overcome the language barrier, my sisters and I were cuddled up on a bed like a kid slumber party talking and laughing in a bizarre combination of Gujarati and English. After i asked something bordering on taboo about Indian Culture in Gujarati that was, apparently, very funny, someone blurted out what was to become my new nickname--Horkie. For the next few days everyone in the village went on calling me Horkie and when they would introduced me to friends they would proudly announce my newly given indian name, the meaning which i was still ignorant to. When i found out the meaning i was actually delighted at it's connotation. To me it signified the vary indication that i was breaking cultural barriers and surprising people with my sometimes inappropriate and unusual responses to these places and people.
Horkie = Naughty...
2 more weeks wiht my family then off to Agra and Delhi. Going to Mumbai with my family on Tuesday for an Indian wedding! A perfect venue to violate cultural practices!! Just kidding. but i'll continue to live out my name... Horkie Lily Patel
That same day walking through the farm some women hunched over in vibrant saris in the distance caught my eye. My father, Daskaka--Gujarati for "uncle" (everyone's uncle*) pointed out that those people were "lower" and that all of his hired labor were, in fact, lower caste. Though this ancient practice of social stratification has been legally prohibited, it continues to drive and segregate society to this day. My family was a member of the highest caste, the Brahmins, who were those that could acquire "knowledge"or work as clergymen. And though my father hadn't made it past the 6th grade, his children had attended university and were striving to escape rural life and move there way into the "New India"--a world of Goldman-Sachs and Microsoft and T-shirts. He went on to say he paid his laborers 60 rupee a day (US $1.15) and he claimed that he abided by the Child Labor Laws which forbid children under the age of 15 to work. As I looked around, there were surely children working picking cotton and thinning tobacco and i couldn't help by be angry at this man who so easily could distribute his wealth more evenly and cultivate this land more lawfully. The laborers were filthy and many of them looked thin, ill and overworked so i was surprised when i learned that they actually live ABOVE the poverty line in india, which accounts for 80% of the population who lives under $2 a day. Adjusted for PPP these people made about $3 a day.
As the week went on i continued to encounter moments of prejudice and submission in both cases of sex and caste. One weekend night my sisters dressed me up in this sparkling red sari and bedazzled me with bangols and nose rings and we went to the small square outside the temple in our small town and began to dance the "Garba"--a traditional India circle dance. I noticed all of these people huddles around us on the ground wrapped in blankets with unkempt hair and dirty faces and i couldn't help but feel uncomfortable giddily dancing around with the upper caste knowing that there were people that couldn't--that didn't have the right to as lawful as it may have been. The last thing i want to do here is perpetuate and encourage this discrimination but how could i do that while still being "culturally sensitive." I didn't want to offend my host family who was (for the most part) being so great but i just couldn't ignore it.
Here more than anywhere else, i have noticed the line between "culture" and morality being blurred. Any seeming human injustice can be justified by a means of culture and religion. Why do i have to touch a mans feet (and put my face near his crotch) every time i meet one? Indian Culture. Why do my sisters have to give up there seats on the couch every time a man walks in? Indian culture. Did you get to choose your husband? No, arranged marriage is Indian culture. Why do I have to tell my family when i get my period? Because you are unclean and you can't go to temple or enter the kitchen--God says 'no.' Why do I have to vale my head at temple? Ramayana says so. Why don't you work on the farm everyday? We are high caste, this is Indian culture.
I couldn't help but be angry with my self for being so "stuck" on all of my American bias. Sure, i was uncomfortable with it but was that because it was wrong or just different? My family constantly told me i needed to be a "good Indian woman!" and that meant cooking and cleaning and (this one might be the most important) never being tired. As you all know 'organized' is not particularly a word i associate myself with, cooking isn't exactly my forte, and being passive and playing role is definitely something i've been constantly lashing out against my whole life, so you could see how this lifestyle would be different to say the least. And you should have seen their reactions when i told them i had (brace yourself) eaten an egg, or worse, a chicken. Or smoked a cigarette or tasted wine. And by far the most daunting, not have a religion! I felt like i was accepting and respecting so many of their cultural differences but they were just dismissing and hating on mine. They also have decided that wearing sunscreen is incredibly racist and my pregnant sister sneers at me everyday for me wanting to "no turn black." This reached a tipping point when one day i woke up 30 minutes late (7:30) and by sisters harassed me for being "lazy." And i just wanted to scream in their faces "I do what you tell me all day and do the same stupid fucking things to entertain all of YOU and make you laugh" but of course i didn't despite i could practically translate the remarks they were rattling off about me. And they hang a picture of Gandhi in their house...
But i had to make a decision about how to respond to all of this since my natural reaction was clearly formulated by my preconceived beliefs and imposing my own ideas or refusing to abide by theirs was both ignorant and disrespectful. So until i could make a decision i had to my surrender my beliefs and become a "good Indian women" and, with that, figure out what that really meant and felt like. When i changed my attitude i began to see things differently. One day, on women duty, i was cooking rotli with two of my married sisters and one who speaks decent English asked me if i liked cooking. I said yes, but i don't got to do it very often and then reciprocated the question. She put down the pan and spatula and with the most telling look in her eyes replied "It doesn't matter if i like or don't like--i have to do everyday." I had never thought that asking such a question could arise such emotion. It was my first experience of my sisters, who were all between the ages of 20-25 and married, honestly opening up to me about their lives. Daskaka challenged me as well one day, after some tough convincing, he took me to work in the rice patties and we all got right down in the mud with the laborers to plant rice in the morning sun. Daskaka and his wife also asked if they could bring their beds in to our room for sleeping, another aspect of the strong family bond that is so integrated into Indian Culture that felt comfortable to apart of. We watched endless hours of wedding videos, and they family cried as if these viewings were a weekly event and they had memorized every emotional moment. As i shared pictures of home, pictures of me and my "husband" at prom and me and my high school best friends before a Tokyo Drift themed dance, instead of being greeted with judgment and ridicule they responded with laughter and curiosity. Though my father did question "Why isn't your husband an Indian." I told him my best friend was, and i think that many have compensated despite that for some reason in all of the pictures i brought of me and Kailee we are either in some oddly compromising position or wrapped around body guards at M.I.A. concerts.
By the end of the week they had changed my Indian name. Initially they had called me Lily--"Tamaru nam Lily chhe" they had told me. One night attempting to overcome the language barrier, my sisters and I were cuddled up on a bed like a kid slumber party talking and laughing in a bizarre combination of Gujarati and English. After i asked something bordering on taboo about Indian Culture in Gujarati that was, apparently, very funny, someone blurted out what was to become my new nickname--Horkie. For the next few days everyone in the village went on calling me Horkie and when they would introduced me to friends they would proudly announce my newly given indian name, the meaning which i was still ignorant to. When i found out the meaning i was actually delighted at it's connotation. To me it signified the vary indication that i was breaking cultural barriers and surprising people with my sometimes inappropriate and unusual responses to these places and people.
Horkie = Naughty...
2 more weeks wiht my family then off to Agra and Delhi. Going to Mumbai with my family on Tuesday for an Indian wedding! A perfect venue to violate cultural practices!! Just kidding. but i'll continue to live out my name... Horkie Lily Patel
Monday, December 28, 2009
Don't blame me! Blame China...
Some of you may have noticed that i haven't blogged since i left Quito. Some of you may also know that everything on the internet that teeters on interesting or social or that concerns the specifics of the Cultural Revolution is blocked by the CCP...Including blogspot and yahoo answers and youtube and nearly every other useful page that you can surf on the incredible misnomer that is the "WORLD Wide Web." So it goes... So much has happened from me hiking the Inca Trail to being DENIED entry to China to a picture of me appearing in the largest newspaper in Kunming! That said, to recount all that has happened would not only be incredibly boring for all of you who have probably already given up reading this blog anyway, but could hardly do justice to my experiences. But a few highlights--bullet-points are necessary...
1. I was nearly escorted out of Machu Picchu for crossing the practically invisible border in to the ares where the lamas grazed, only after Bridget literally peed her pants from laughing so hard at the tourist reactions to our "lama behavior"--this makes sense in context, i swear. If you would have seen the types and numbers of tourist there you would have reacted in a similar manner...that is, if you're a sane person.
2. So according to my Chinese Visa i was born November 22, 1949 and my last name is Agriswold. So there, Chinese people, with your math skills and all. Kidding, but it was an error of the Chinese Embassy. And after a 15 hour journey from Cuzco, Peru to Los Angeles CA I was prohibited from getting on the flight to China because of the visa. So i waved goodbye to the rest of the group and spent the next day in and out of the Chinese Embassy with one of my leaders. True Fact. And desperately tried to ignore the inevitable culture shock as i walked past Dolce and Gabana and all of the "fashionistas" and saw billboards for "Paranormal Activity" and even ran in to Richard Simons who asked me if i'd worked out that day and after i affirmatively replied he called me a liar. Maybe this trip has made me fatter... I'm glad i got out fast, definitely wasn't ready for that!
3. I perfected my chinese accent. Not the one of the tedious chinese language of course, but the one of Chinese people speaking english, a vital skill to master for all. But really i did learn how to say "can i have forty dumplings?" and "I am America," along with other, useful, phrases in Chinese that helped with my homestay experience. Advise: never eat hotpot, that is unless, you would like your butt-hole to turn into a garden hose, just sayin'.
4. "Chinglish" is that another word that was added to my vocabulary. A mix of Chinese and English, the equivalent of the bull-dog shih-Tsu mix of language--makes no sense and is commonly found on T-shirts (have you ever seen a real one, bull-shih(t) i mean?) Anyway, nearly all chinese apparel is decorated with common phrases like "London, Birthday Cake, Have you any Pink?" and "Imagine Peace with frosting." It's awesome really, because anything makes sense.
5. I ate a spleen, accidentally. i don't want to talk about this...
6. Karaoke is to China and what going to movies is to Americans. Accept you can't go deaf from Brad Pitt (maybe Micheal Bay.) Imagine running over a cat with a hummer again and again to the tube of a toddler pounding on a piano and this is the sound of Chinese Music, at least the music that my middle aged host mother chose to sing. over and over again in a 10 ft by 15 ft karaoke booth. Maybe it's what mainstream rap music is to youth in the US--each song really does sound different to them but to an non-listener it sounds like a sub whiffer with lycris that alternate every synonym of words like bitch, money and guns. Regardless, i was excited to leave after 4 hours in the Karaoke booth.
Okay enough for now, i'll split this up in to a few doses, wouldn't want to bore you, if you've even gotten this far. Something more thoughtful is coming. soon. tomorrow? I'm in India now, by the way. More to come!
THANKS FOR THE PACKAGES!! the blondies survived!
BIG love
1. I was nearly escorted out of Machu Picchu for crossing the practically invisible border in to the ares where the lamas grazed, only after Bridget literally peed her pants from laughing so hard at the tourist reactions to our "lama behavior"--this makes sense in context, i swear. If you would have seen the types and numbers of tourist there you would have reacted in a similar manner...that is, if you're a sane person.
2. So according to my Chinese Visa i was born November 22, 1949 and my last name is Agriswold. So there, Chinese people, with your math skills and all. Kidding, but it was an error of the Chinese Embassy. And after a 15 hour journey from Cuzco, Peru to Los Angeles CA I was prohibited from getting on the flight to China because of the visa. So i waved goodbye to the rest of the group and spent the next day in and out of the Chinese Embassy with one of my leaders. True Fact. And desperately tried to ignore the inevitable culture shock as i walked past Dolce and Gabana and all of the "fashionistas" and saw billboards for "Paranormal Activity" and even ran in to Richard Simons who asked me if i'd worked out that day and after i affirmatively replied he called me a liar. Maybe this trip has made me fatter... I'm glad i got out fast, definitely wasn't ready for that!
3. I perfected my chinese accent. Not the one of the tedious chinese language of course, but the one of Chinese people speaking english, a vital skill to master for all. But really i did learn how to say "can i have forty dumplings?" and "I am America," along with other, useful, phrases in Chinese that helped with my homestay experience. Advise: never eat hotpot, that is unless, you would like your butt-hole to turn into a garden hose, just sayin'.
4. "Chinglish" is that another word that was added to my vocabulary. A mix of Chinese and English, the equivalent of the bull-dog shih-Tsu mix of language--makes no sense and is commonly found on T-shirts (have you ever seen a real one, bull-shih(t) i mean?) Anyway, nearly all chinese apparel is decorated with common phrases like "London, Birthday Cake, Have you any Pink?" and "Imagine Peace with frosting." It's awesome really, because anything makes sense.
5. I ate a spleen, accidentally. i don't want to talk about this...
6. Karaoke is to China and what going to movies is to Americans. Accept you can't go deaf from Brad Pitt (maybe Micheal Bay.) Imagine running over a cat with a hummer again and again to the tube of a toddler pounding on a piano and this is the sound of Chinese Music, at least the music that my middle aged host mother chose to sing. over and over again in a 10 ft by 15 ft karaoke booth. Maybe it's what mainstream rap music is to youth in the US--each song really does sound different to them but to an non-listener it sounds like a sub whiffer with lycris that alternate every synonym of words like bitch, money and guns. Regardless, i was excited to leave after 4 hours in the Karaoke booth.
Okay enough for now, i'll split this up in to a few doses, wouldn't want to bore you, if you've even gotten this far. Something more thoughtful is coming. soon. tomorrow? I'm in India now, by the way. More to come!
THANKS FOR THE PACKAGES!! the blondies survived!
BIG love
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