tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69277413953763209702024-03-05T22:31:34.957-08:00measure in loveMadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-41885664385752945372015-09-28T15:55:00.003-07:002015-09-28T16:08:49.178-07:00Five years later<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Every August, YAVs go through a week of <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/08/yav-orientation.html" target="_blank">Orientation</a> in Stony Point, New York and then depart for their respective sites, where they
will spend the next year engaged in mission service, simple living, and
Christian community, navigating an altogether special, challenging time of
life.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-MwIGAXV52StM3GwsPrN9hw2I8Dp9cOF5LZtgGNi1H7nvaHzfbGhfs2FqgBTkr1iJfcNLq5aM528NWNDdhMgHXsDeSIcAYmNCx1700o72MBnOhBXfKWXJNsbaTmKHcACPyFo8oLagaLMf/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-MwIGAXV52StM3GwsPrN9hw2I8Dp9cOF5LZtgGNi1H7nvaHzfbGhfs2FqgBTkr1iJfcNLq5aM528NWNDdhMgHXsDeSIcAYmNCx1700o72MBnOhBXfKWXJNsbaTmKHcACPyFo8oLagaLMf/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="224" /></a>Every September, YAVs who just finished their year of
service gather at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico for the Transition Retreat, an
opportunity to reunite, share stories, and process the year. It’s a time to think
about “letting go (endings), letting be (the neutral zone), and letting begin
(new beginnings).” </div>
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Maggie and I joked that there were a number of people we
liked a lot more at Transition than at Orientation. Something about a shared
experience (even on opposite sides of the globe) – a shared
having-the-crap-knocked-out-of-you – a shared joy – bound us all together and
gave us a common understanding in a way that was just not possible thirteen
months prior at Orientation.</div>
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It has been five years since I went through Orientation. In
God’s wonderful way, I now have the privilege of helping structure/run our <a href="http://www.secondchurch.org/indyyav" target="_blank">brand new Indianapolis YAV site</a>; our three YAVs, Megan, Madison, and
Liz, have been here for about a month now, and are doing great work.</div>
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I come back to this blog every so often to revisit some of
my favorite memories and people. I will never stop thanking my 22-year-old self
for updating it regularly. It’s amazing and saddening how many things are
forgotten with time. There are things I didn’t write about that I still
remember, though foggily. It’s also fascinating how memory changes with time.</div>
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For example, looking back on it now, I’d have to say that
one of the crowning achievements of my YAV year, a truly mountaintop experience,
took place in the month of January. School was cancelled for a day or two,
essentially giving us a long weekend, and as such, most of the boarding
students went home to be with their families. Out of fifty girls, only 5 or 6 of various ages stayed at <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/09/penpals-anyone-and-way-you-can-help.html" target="_blank">Buchanan</a> along with me and the
Warden, <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/11/puppies-coffee-crocheting-and-hand.html" target="_blank">Gracy Kochamma</a>.</div>
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It also happened that there was a Youth Festival going on
that weekend in the nearby city of Kottayam. Knowing that they would not be
going home for the long weekend, the girls asked me well in advance if I
thought I would be able to take them to town for the Youth Festival. As in –
did I think I could get Gracy Kochamma’s permission. I wasn’t sure, but some of
the older girls were encouraging and made sure I knew how to ask in Malayalam.
Gracy Kochamma and I already had a good rapport at this point, and while one of
the girls could have easily asked on my behalf, we thought that my asking would
be a good way to butter her up :)</div>
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She said yes! But a few days later, just a couple of days
before the start of the long weekend, she changed her mind. This was
disappointing, but one of the older girls was sure that Gracy Kochamma could be
convinced. So I went to her again, and said “please!” The pouty faces of the
girls who wanted to go helped, I’m sure. And Gracy Kochamma relented. “Your
risk,” she said. She wanted me to know that I was the adult in charge, and that
I needed to make sure that nothing went awry during this outing.</div>
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And so the next day, we went. We got dressed and, rupees in
hand, took the bus to Kottayam. We wandered the city, went shopping, and went
to the Youth Festival. We even made a detour to CMS College. Ordinarily, these
girls would not have been allowed on campus, but in this instance, I was HAPPY
to use my foreigner privilege to waltz right in with them in tow. The security
guards didn’t ask questions and the girls marveled at the campus, which they
had only heard about before (and had possibly seen in a movie that was filmed there). “You could study here one day,” I told them. We watched college students
walk to their classes as we shared oranges under the shade of leafy, towering
tree. </div>
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We returned to the realm of Gracy Kochamma’s kind, watchful
gaze before dark, as was expected, and she received the bakery treats we
brought her as a ‘thank you’ with pleasure and amusement.</div>
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The above description of our ‘field trip’ may not sound that extraordinary, but it was an extraordinary day. A few months prior,
I had depended on the girls in my hostel to teach me basic things…simple
phrases, how to count to ten, how to wash my clothes by hand. I had to rely on
other adults to teach me how to navigate the buses, how to pronounce the town
names correctly, and how find my way around the bus stations. (For an outsider,
none of the above is an intuitive process, and it required a lot of
instruction.) I was like a child, always dependent on the kindness, guidance,
and patience of others.</div>
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Four months later, I was the one doing the hand-holding. I
was the accountable adult – the responsible, not-getting-us-all-lost person – trusted
enough to keep other people’s children safe on our foray into the city.</div>
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Looking back, I marvel at having made that transition from
‘child’/outsider to responsible adult/agent who is part of the community. This
transition and the relationships that accompanied it were by far the biggest
gift of my YAV year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I have thought about this Youth Festival outing and its
significance more than once in the years since. I’ve never been able to figure out
why I didn’t write about such a monumental day. It saddens me that I never wrote
about it, because as time has, indeed, shown, memories fade; I can’t remember
which girls, specifically, went with me that day. I don’t even have a picture
to look back at to jog my memory. I also couldn’t say with certainty whether or
not we met up with Jim, but my guess it that we did, since CMS College
was his YAV placement. </div>
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Though I didn’t send many emails during my YAV year, it
occurred to me earlier this week that maybe I wrote to someone about this
experience. Maybe an email I sent almost five years ago would contain the
details that I could only grasp for now. Sure enough, I found in my ‘sent’ folder
an email I sent to Levity on January 26, 2011. The paragraph regarding the
Youth Festival: </div>
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Guess what, I was in 2 newspapers
and on tv! There was a big “Youth Festival” last week (kids from all over India
come to compete in events like traditional dance, drama, Hindi speech giving, English
speech giving, etc), so there was tons of media coverage. I attended several of
the events and was the only foreigner there….once one reporter started asking
me questions (why are you in Kerala? What do you think about the youth
festival? etc.), a bunch of them swarmed. It was overwhelming/fun/exciting. And
since then, totally RANDOM people have said “I saw you on tv!” (Well, something
more like “you tv seeing” - but I know what they mean). The other day I was at a
parade and the driver of one of the floats waved at me and yelled “newspaper!”
So I take that to mean he saw me in the newspaper. Yep, your roomie is famous
;-)</div>
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I laughed out loud to read this account, more than a little
surprised. Five-years-ago Madison apparently had no awareness of what a
significant moment this was in my YAV year. Looking back, I guess I never
blogged about it because I didn’t think it was worth blogging about – it was
nothing more than a fun story that involved my own personal fifteen minutes of
fame. Ironically, prior to finding this old email, I had no recollection of
that part of the story. </div>
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Sometimes it takes years to be able to recognize and interpret the truly meaningful moments in our lives. </div>
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And so another story has been recorded for posterity. With
Kerala on my mind, I can’t help but think of all of my favorite people there.
Thomas John Achen, Betty Kochamma, Gracy Kochamma, Jaimol Kochamma, and more.
The Buchanan and TTC boarding students. How strange to think that <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/transitioning-back-and-partys-over.html" target="_blank">Aleena</a>, my
five-years-ago 5<sup>th</sup>-grader best friend, is in 10<sup>th</sup> grade
now (the day we find each other on facebook will be a joyous day, indeed). <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/02/sunday-of-optimal-sort.html" target="_blank">Sruthy</a> is married and has a baby. <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/02/taste-of-goodbye.html" target="_blank">Jinta</a> is in nursing school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only remember koruchu (a little)
Malayalam.<br />
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Language may fade; even memory fails. But the grace and love
that filled and surrounded me during that year - they will be with me for a
lifetime.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cuxQBcuTKLnGl01wrVuiGWcsN57ieQvyjtU-gvbZrNdaFaT-zZAx18ipSXct_9Fnt0KkfdsRm7F3nE7JlkK-5V37NfvcRA2ZTHfABLYNFHt_tLotZDFry7PSVPhx87MlFUBzfCPyo58h/s1600/556838_10200459118096141_1794536764_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cuxQBcuTKLnGl01wrVuiGWcsN57ieQvyjtU-gvbZrNdaFaT-zZAx18ipSXct_9Fnt0KkfdsRm7F3nE7JlkK-5V37NfvcRA2ZTHfABLYNFHt_tLotZDFry7PSVPhx87MlFUBzfCPyo58h/s400/556838_10200459118096141_1794536764_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visitng Kerala two years ago, pictured with Thomas John Achen and his family</td></tr>
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Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-4313556618160429942012-10-30T15:52:00.001-07:002012-10-30T15:55:19.871-07:00missing you never gets old<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This post was written on October 26.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe you know the feeling. The one when something about which you thought your heart had long reached a peaceful equilibrium comes back with an immediacy and real-ness you didn't know it still possessed. Equally surprising is when it hits you...such as a year and three months later when you're riding on a bus through the arid desert of Jordan.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I guess that's as good a time as any to miss Gracy Kochamma. I'm not sure what made me think of her, but before I knew it I had tears coming down my face and would have done anything to see her in that moment. I could picture her in my mind, of course--the purple and white saree she frequently wore, her thinning pepper grey hair pulled back tautly into a small nub of a pony tail, if you could call it that. </span></i></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bSPEKZ5-QRUqqOFF9xf_PmCFH_UWXskzeiZVnt1iDJuazdf9hB4D5S5EethNbwozHxMSNY9L0TF7DpyghLWghs9IPNbrbuf3T4hYwYqH3SSYV6cHIjIQmlbNQbljk05enDIdHxdpQhYU/s1600/IMG_1682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bSPEKZ5-QRUqqOFF9xf_PmCFH_UWXskzeiZVnt1iDJuazdf9hB4D5S5EethNbwozHxMSNY9L0TF7DpyghLWghs9IPNbrbuf3T4hYwYqH3SSYV6cHIjIQmlbNQbljk05enDIdHxdpQhYU/s320/IMG_1682.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Praseela and Gracy Kochamma</span></span></td></tr>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We knew just enough English and Malayalam combined, she and I, to be dangerous. To be able to laugh together about silly things...for her to teach me to crochet and embroider...to gripe about the (then) new warden. The space created by the words we </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">didn't</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> have was filled by the comfortable familiarity that develops with companionship over time. </span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She was/is one of the great women in my life. Maybe these are the things I would tell her if I had a way to (and if we had a translator). That I can still envision her in the mess hall, feet propped on a stool, chopping vegetables. That I love her facial expressions. That there are few people I respect more than her. That I regret not embroidering a bookmark for her like I did for Jaimol Kochamma. If I could change anything about my last few days in Kerala, it would be that. I'd find the time to make Gracy Kochamma a bookmark, too.</span></i><br />
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<i></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hope she knows how much I love her...and that I can tell her that again in person one day. </span></i><br />
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<i></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Perhaps some things you never get over- you're not meant to. Why would I want to 'get over' the love I feel for those people who were my life for a year, after all? After all this time I still feel the loss acutely, but maybe that is a pain for which I should be grateful. There are always things in life that make us sad...and if we're lucky, the good kind of sad. The kind of sad that comes from the void left by </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">something beautiful, but no less beautiful in its absence.</span></i><br />
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<i></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thanks be to God.</span></i></div>
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Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-65731353052042420022011-07-25T08:45:00.001-07:002011-07-25T08:45:52.932-07:00epilogue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">“Epilogue”—now THAT’S a clue that I take myself a little too seriously. (However I have often wished to write a book one day…right co-author Levity Tomkinson? :))<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well friends, I’m home. “Home,” at the moment, means Tampa, Florida, at my Dad’s house. Thursday morning I’ll be going “home” to Ocala, to my mom’s house. And less than two weeks later, I’ll move to my NEW home for the next three years, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary. Hectic, overwhelming, and exciting all in one. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The trip from Kerala was pleasant and uneventful (and if you read my last post, you know that ‘uneventful’ is a GOOD thing!).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been in the US less than 24 hours now and have already been encountering many ‘whoa-I’m-not-in-Kerala-anymore’ moments. It’s weird to hear people talking to each other in English. It’s weird to be in an air-conditioned HOUSE. It’s weird to have just eaten cereal for breakfast. It’s weird to not be in the same room with Jim and Maggie. And I have come to the (weird) conclusion that I should either take the nail polish off my left hand, or paint my right hand, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think of Shanu, Aleena, Vava, and all of the other Buchanan boarding students…what are they doing now? Probably just finishing dinner, I'd guess. Meanwhile I'm 8,000 miles away and a machine is washing my clothes, and another machine is drying a load (weird?), while I write this last, final, blog post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The writer (or wanna-be writer) in me might even miss writing to all of you, whoever you may be, out there. I hope you have gotten something out of it—I know that I have. If anything it has been a therapeutic exercise in organizing and processing my own thoughts during this amazing, challenging, growth-filled year, and I thank you for allowing me to do that and for participating in my journey from afar.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To all of my loved ones in Kerala, know that I am missing you more each day as the reality of being gone sets in. It is impossible for me to express the amount of love and gratitude I have for you, or how much I miss you!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">...So here I am, back to ‘normal’ (?) life. The conclusion of my time in India feels very much like an ‘end,’ and I suppose it is at an end, in terms of my day-to-day reality. But “love never ends” (1 Corinthians 13:8). And I carry forward with me the love and memory of all of my loved ones there. So maybe it’s not really an end at all, or at least not <i>just</i> an end. Perhaps it’s also a beginning?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another adventure, after all, awaits. This new foreign place: home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>We shall not cease from exploration</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>And at the end of all our exploring</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Will be to arrive where we started</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>And know the place for the first time</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-TS Eliot</i></div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-20641116244669084432011-07-23T06:41:00.000-07:002012-07-19T13:35:40.499-07:00the perils of missing Form A<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><i>“It’s 4:39AM. I’m sitting in the Delhi airport. This is a problem.</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><i>Why, you ask?</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><i>Merely the fact that I should be on a PLANE right now. I should have been on a plane for four hours, in fact. But things didn’t exactly work out that way…”</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">I started writing this post at the stated time on July 18. Exhaustion, however, quickly took over, and now it is July 23. A lot has happened since then, but the good news is that there IS light at the end of the tunnel. After a week of delays, roadblocks, setbacks, etc (and a lot of grace and God sends, too!), Maggie, Jim, and I will be heading home at 4:30AM on July 24. Our flight goes from Kochi, Kerala, to Qatar, to Washington DC. From there, we will split ways; I’ll be going to Tampa. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">Many of you might’ve been following some of the events on facebook. Whether you have or haven’t been keeping up, a quick recap: We flew from Kerala to Delhi on 7/18. Attempting to pass through Immigration in order to board our connecting flight to New York, we were prevented from leaving due to missing some paperwork that we didn’t know we had to have. The result was a 24-hour circus in the Delhi airport involving figuring out what forms, exactly, were needed, being told “please wait 5 minutes” 24-hours worth of times, trying to leave the airport to obtain said forms at the Foreigners’ Registration Office, being prevented from leaving, finally getting out, etc etc etc, ultimately being told that we had to return to Kerala. Oh yeah, and meanwhile, my and Maggie’s visas expired. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">That’s not even really the half of it, but we always tried to find the humor in the situation (“you are a selfish man”…”let’s hold hands and walk out together!”) and trusted that everything would work out. And it has—through the grace of God and the tireless work of the YAV Office and Thomas John Achen, all of whom were working around the clock to help us as best as they could. We came back to Kerala to get everything sorted out, and have now obtained the missing paperwork and booked new flights. …A week later than we were supposed to leave, yes, but there have been plenty of lessons and laughs even in what was, at times, an extremely frustrating situation. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">I have learned…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">-what it feels like to not be listened to (and because of this, the importance of listening to others)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">-that sometimes it’s ‘insignificant’ people who can truly change your situation for the better. The employees of Costa Coffee in the Delhi airport, for example—our home for 24 hours—let us sleep on their comfy couches, and were truly kind and sympathetic to us. The operator of the nearby payphone let us use his personal cell phone to receive calls—SUCH a blessing when we literally had no way (other than limited emails to/from Maggie’s blackberry—yet another God send) to communicate with the outside world, the embassy, etc. And it was a clerk at the Kottayam police station who helped us to expedite our paperwork and solve the matter within one day…without him, we would be stuck until at least next week.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">-how fortunate I am. I had the YAV office and others working hard on the problem…I had Jim and Maggie to navigate the bureaucracy with me…what if I had been alone? What if I didn’t have the money to book a return ticket back to Kerala? Or my new return flight to the US?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">I have also experienced, for a small and insignificant amount of time, what it feels like to be in a foreign country without the proper documentation. To not know where to turn for help; to be told ‘no’ repeatedly; to not speak the right language; to be at the mercy of a system much larger than I.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">It has been, in short, a humbling experience. An experience that has proven that the YAV Office can truly handle ANYTHING (they are champs!!), and an experience throughout which I was provided for consistently. And, it is worth mentioning, an experience that, while filled with ups and downs, has in no way detracted from my YAV year or been an all-eclipsing event. If anything, it merely makes a good story to tell at the re-entry retreat! ;-)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">It also allowed me to come back to Kerala, spend a few extra days with Thomas John Achen, Betty Kochamma, Binu, Jim, and Maggie—and that’s nothing to complain about at all :-) </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">A huge THANKS to everyone who has offered support and words of encouragement to all of us along the way. With any luck, we’ll board our flight tonight and the next time I write will be from HOME!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;"><i>“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” –Thornton Wilder</i></span></div>
</div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-84145071156385847982011-07-17T07:04:00.000-07:002011-07-17T10:39:00.236-07:00dedicated, to youIt’s currently about 7:40PM on July 17, 2011. I’ve got approximately 24 hours left in Kerala. And after a day that reminds me why I love Thomas John Achen, Betty Kochamma, Binu, Jim and Maggie so much, and has already left me sorely homesick for Buchanan, I would like to offer up some gratitude. A dedication.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a bit odd, I know, to end something with a dedication. They always come first in books…but this isn’t a book. It’s merely my blog; the accumulation of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49AwMPuBJs0">‘five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear.' </a>And when I say ‘my blog,’ I don’t just mean this one post. I mean the 84 posts before it, too--from the <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/08/bienvenidos.html">first one</a>, onwards. My blog in its entirety. Because ironically, during my year of mission service, it was not I who served; it was I who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> served. It was not I who taught; it was I who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> taught. And while I will never be able to repay all of the grace and kindness that has been shown to me this year, I will give what I can. Cognizant of the meagerness of my offering, I will dedicate its written record to those who helped make this experience what it was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwwPYdaiPeK9EsMvYrWt-uYasz5kgjHQYPVcNDJnpw3DAbSINNydAblTfqsRaKJhQ9GYbCokEPQcsSywsSJGkeV08pJOtXZ1xKjQ8ySJOTV7Mq9k5GNsbOXDsjMkX3tb_f1ZP4M1lB3xER/s1600/IMG_0565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwwPYdaiPeK9EsMvYrWt-uYasz5kgjHQYPVcNDJnpw3DAbSINNydAblTfqsRaKJhQ9GYbCokEPQcsSywsSJGkeV08pJOtXZ1xKjQ8ySJOTV7Mq9k5GNsbOXDsjMkX3tb_f1ZP4M1lB3xER/s320/IMG_0565.JPG" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Madi Chechi' at her finest</td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li>I dedicate this blog to all students and teachers at Buchanan, particularly the 5<sup>th</sup> grade classes, for making me smile even when I didn’t feel like it. To last year’s class of 8E, for its unfailing exuberance, especially Sneha.</li>
<li>I dedicate this blog to the TTC and Buchanan boarding students, for loving me so well. For allowing me to be a chechi for a year. You made my days come alive.</li>
<li>I dedicate this blog to my Malayalam tutor, Sanila Teacher, who taught me far more important lessons than Malayalam. Your enormous faith has simultaneously made me realize the weakness of my own and inspired me to deepen it.</li>
<li>I dedicate this blog to everyone at Mandiram, especially Thomas Samuel Achen, my other Malayalam tutor (who, likewise, taught me greater things than Malayalam). Thank you for believing in me and encouraging me to always give my best.</li>
<li>I dedicate this blog to Thomas John Achen, Betty Kochamma, and Binu, for loving and taking care of me, the ‘least of these’ (Matthew 25:40). For making this program possible in the first place; for making us part of your family. Achen, you’re going to officiate at my wedding. I just have to find the groom.</li>
<li>I dedicate this blog to Jim and Maggie, my full time ‘bystanders,’ for the times we’ve laughed until we’ve cried, and cried until we’ve laughed. You guys…WE MADE IT!! And whether waiting for our 2AM snack in the Mumbai airport, debating the finer points of Indian culture (such as the activities before/after which one would be expected to pray or have tea), or troubleshooting our bowel movements...you have not only kept me sane—you have made this year wonderful.</li>
<li>Most of all, I dedicate this blog to my querida Jaimol Kochamma, who I have loved from the beginning. You have been far more of a friend and mother to me than my supervisor—I will be missing you always.</li>
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Finally, I dedicate this blog to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>, for being right there with me the whole way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for a while and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.” -Unknown<o:p></o:p></i></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-7750198446045087182011-07-16T00:02:00.000-07:002011-07-17T10:40:40.304-07:00how lucky I am<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yesterday was a day that I thought would never come. Some days it seemed like it couldn’t come soon enough; others, like I never wanted it to come at all. But it came and went and here I am to tell you about it.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My last day at Buchanan started extra early; I had to wake up before morning prayer to iron my saree. After morning prayer I accompanied the girls to the mess hall for <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/07/world-is-round.html">morning coffee</a>, meanwhile thinking </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can’t believe I will never walk here arm in arm with Shanu and Snigdha again.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Coffee finished, Deepa, a TTC student, came to my room to help me dress. I’ve been wearing sarees on my own for a month or so now, but yesterday was a special occasion: my last day at Buchanan, and my ‘send off’ celebration. I would be wearing a Kerala saree, and everyone wanted to make sure it was perfect. A ‘kerala saree’ is, as the name suggests, a special type of saree that Kerala is known for—cream colored and with a gold border. It is worn on the holiday Onam, and on special occasions.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Deepa made sure all the pleats and pins were in the right place, and I was ready to go. Luckily I had finished my packing the day before, but my work was far from done. In the preceding weeks, I had taken and printed a copy of a photo with every teacher and staff member. Yesterday morning, my plan was to write a short message on the back of each. This took longer than expected and resulted in me skipping breakfast. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I finally made it to the staff room and was greeted with much approval and many smiles at my very traditional Kerala dress. It’s only fitting that I look like a Malayalee on my last day, right? :-) I felt it was kind of symbolic, too: I came a stranger, a madama…and left looking like a Malayalee. (And the transformation has been more than outward, I assure you…I’ve got the <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/ayyo.html">mannerisms and speech idiosyncracies</a> to prove it, haha). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jessy Teacher brought out a bag of jasmine flowers and set to work tying them in my hair. Jasmine flowers are another essential part of the ‘kerala saree’ look. I was showered by gifts and cards from teachers and students, turning my place at my table in the staff room into a mountain of chaos and love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Before long it was time for the send off celebration, and the entire school gathered in the auditorium. I was made to sit on the stage with the school’s manager, K.T. Kurian Achen, and the Headmistress, Aleyamma Kochamma. Both addressed the gathering, followed by a speech from a student, speeches from two teachers, and a time for me to speak, as well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I responded to a comment that K.T. Kurian Achen made in his address: “Madison adjusted very well to life in Kerala and life on our campus.” My reply was that adjusting was not only not an issue—it was easy. Because I had the love, friendship, help, and kindness of all Buchanan teachers and students, right from day one. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I ineloquently thanked them all as best as I could, and was then presented by handmade cards from each class. The teachers got me a gift, too—gold earrings.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I guess I should tell you that I had already bought some gold earrings, back in November. I hadn’t brought any with me to Kerala, and it had become quickly apparent that I was going to <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/09/penpals-anyone-and-way-you-can-help.html">need some</a>, as it is pretty much an expectation for all women to wear earrings, and my ears are allergic to anything but gold or silver.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last month, however, I sold the aforementioned earrings. I was out of cash, at the time, and, with just a few weeks left in India, rather than pay a ridiculous ATM fee to withdraw more money and further deplete my limited bank account, I thought, “you know, they’re just earrings. I’m going to be a poor Seminary student soon…I don’t </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">really </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">need them.” And that was that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtpDLyPrYkj6nEOa9s8N5yKcNhmQLgMGPcS86rT9weu5_ta5spj9V0PA4bkrJvtaJ-zaTmgYD5o0lOt6dVNTzN_Z-Bp0IcP4xFggmw8cV3BF0pPDajNBFf7v9tvqtb4_DmRA5wY330xv6/s1600/IMG_1966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtpDLyPrYkj6nEOa9s8N5yKcNhmQLgMGPcS86rT9weu5_ta5spj9V0PA4bkrJvtaJ-zaTmgYD5o0lOt6dVNTzN_Z-Bp0IcP4xFggmw8cV3BF0pPDajNBFf7v9tvqtb4_DmRA5wY330xv6/s320/IMG_1966.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posing with a few of the teachers, wearing my grambu mala :-)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">WELL. The teachers were all dismayed that I had done this, and, unbeknownst to me, secretly began plotting to all chip in and buy me some new gold earrings as a going away present. At yesterday’s send off celebration, they were presented to me, and I was blown away by the teachers’ thoughtfulness and generosity. They also gave me a ‘grambu mala’ (spice necklace), a traditional gift for retiring teachers, which they all helped make by hand. Sitting on the stage throughout the program, I was overwhelmed at the outpouring of love I was getting. I could </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">feel</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> it radiating from the hundreds of faces looking up at me. I am still overwhelmed by it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After the send off, I was given the honor of laying the foundation stone for the new kitchen/dining facilities that are being constructed at Buchanan, using funds from the wonderful organization ‘Girls for Good.’ So even in the face of sadness about me leaving, it was still a great and memorable day in the life of Buchanan :-)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The beautiful gold earrings I mentioned…one problem. I realized, with horror, that the posts were too big for the holes in my ears. All it took was one look for me to know </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">there is no way these are gonna fit.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I approached a few of the teachers in the staff room with this difficulty, and they were quite confident that it was no problem and they would easily be able to get the earrings in my ears. Five minutes, some Vaseline, and a few “ouch-you’re-hurting-me”s later, it became clear that this would not be the case, no matter how many teachers were involved in the process. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was presented with two choices: go to a ‘beauty parlor’ and have my ears re-pierced to make the holes wider (!!!!!), or, go to the jewelry store and exchange the earrings. I opted for the second. So Jaimol Kochamma and Annie Teacher got permission from the Headmistress, and the three of us hopped into Martin Sir’s car for an impromptu trip to Kottayam. The trip was successful and we found some replacement earrings. And now I will always have some beautiful Kerala gold that I will wear and, in the process, with happiness and sadness, remember all of the people that I love at Buchanan Institution Girls’ High School.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we arrived back to Buchanan the bell was just ringing for lunch. At the same instant, I got a text message from Maggie: “We’re leaving Nicholson and coming to Buchanan now.” This meant that I had approximately 45 minutes to finish everything I needed to do: handing out photos to various teachers and staff, packing the new cards and gifts I had received that morning, going around and saying goodbyes, etc. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Looks like I’m not eating lunch, either</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, I realized. But no matter; in spite of not having had breakfast, I didn’t have any appetite, anyway.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The hired car and Maggie arrived impossibly quickly; from there, it was all rush and tears and goodbyes. Students and teachers filled the main courtyard area, seeing us off. The boarding students ran at me for a last tearful group hug. Sanila Teacher and Jaimol Kochamma accompanied me to the car; and with hugs and tears I told them goodbye, not knowing if I will see either of them ever again. The car pulled away and I waved out the window to the hundreds of girls and teachers who all hold with them a piece of my heart.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The car ride to Aluva was uneventful, with the exception of the fact that our driver was crazy and we are lucky to have made it here alive. Our next two days at Achen’s house will be a time of enjoying each other’s company one last time, and reflecting on and processing all that has passed, as well as what’s ahead. I am so thankful for Thomas John Achen, Betty Kochamma, Binu, Jim, Maggie, and everyone at Buchanan for making, and continuing to make, my last days so special. My hair still smells like jasmine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” –Carol Sobeiski and Thomas Meehan,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Annie</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Click </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.1890161009392.2094234.1102470062&l=b0ab2ee974">here</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> to see more photos of my last day at Buchanan, as well as earlier events in the month of July).</span></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-37644098642380524342011-07-15T06:27:00.000-07:002011-07-15T06:30:25.471-07:00the last days<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This post was written on July 10.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Packing up is always a good time to reminisce. And it also affords a great opportunity to marvel at HOW FAST TIME FLIES.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>As I took the paper flowers off of my window frame, I thought, “How is it possible that Graceamma Teacher made these for me in SEPTEMBER?!” And then found myself remembering what a sweet gesture it was, all over again.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>I removed the various cards and letters I’ve gotten from friends and family off of my walls, really looking at some of them for the first time in months. The just-because letters, like from Michael Jones; the Christmas cards, like from Lesley Boyd; the thinking-of-you notes, from family and other friends. Cards I’ve received from Buchanan students, including my favorite ever <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/12/thanksgiving-and-retreat-numero-tres.html">Thanksgiving cards</a>. They all feel like they were received yesterday.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>I peeled off various pictures that I had taped up, thinking with a smile that I’ll be seeing some of those people soon. I laughed to myself while looking at the picture of Natalie and I in China holding McDonalds French fry boxes (you can tell by our faces that we are REALLY thrilled to be having some American food in China), remembering the time, ten months ago, when little Vava and several others were in my room and, pointing at the McDonalds’ logo, asked, “Madi chechi, what’s that??” </i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sorry McDonalds, your brand recognition hasn’t reached Kerala…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>I found the notebook that I took notes in during <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/08/yav-orientation.html">YAV Orientation</a>—how interesting to read some of them in hindsight; to clearly remember writing those words, and yet know how long ago they were written.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>…After finding many reasons to smile while packing, I am now sitting in the hostel study hall with a few of the TTC students. They are working hard preparing their ‘teaching manuals’ for their upcoming ‘teaching practice’ at area schools. I’m so proud of them :)</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>In other news, while I will continue teaching my classes at Buchanan right up until leaving, I taught my last ever 4</i></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>th</i></span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i> grade classes last week, as well as my last ever classes at the boys’ high school…two things that I WON’T miss. Other than the teachers, and some of the students—in their quiet, well-behaved moments, that is. Susan Teacher, the headmistress at one of the Lower Primary schools where I was teaching, gifted me a saree as a going away present, which I’ll be wearing some time this week. I’ve been wearing sarees a lot more frequently, recently—ever since I figured out how to put one on myself, they have been a welcome substitute for the same 7 or 8 churidars that I’ve gotten tired of wearing all year!</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>You might remember me saying that Jim, Maggie, and I would be leaving our sites on Saturday, July 16. Departure day, however, has now been changed to Friday, the 15</i></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>th</i></span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>. That morning, Buchanan is having a ‘send off’ for me; that afternoon, at 2pm, I’ll go. It’s going to be a dramatic day.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>So, I may or may not post again before leaving Buchanan. Most likely not. Lots to do; places to go, people to see. Last ever bucket laundry :) More and more packing. Cleaning. Etc etc. We’ll arrive to Thomas John Achen’s house on Friday, where we’ll stay til Monday, when our flight leaves for the US. I’ll be arriving to Florida on Tuesday, July 19. </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>I apologize if I don’t respond to emails/facebook in the upcoming week or so, minus the occasional status update or maybe a blog from Achen’s house. Because I’ve got forever to be home and talk to all of you there, and only a few days left here.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-top: 3.75pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Today give a stranger one of your smiles. It might be the only sunshine he sees all day.” -Unknown</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="layout-grid-mode: char; margin-top: 3.75pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Update: Obviously, it took me a while to post this one. Left Buchanan this morning and currently at Thomas John Achen's house. More soon.</span></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-34223804264419256162011-07-09T00:55:00.000-07:002011-07-15T06:31:16.120-07:00conversations from this week<p$1></p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With 6<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th </sup>grader, Aleena, while on one of our morning walks:</span></span></b></p$1></div><p$1></p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I HATE HER!!” Aleena shouts in her characteristically overdramatic way, regarding a student that she doesn’t like.</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Aleena, it’s not nice to hate people. What if she knew you were saying these things about her? Wouldn’t she be sad?”</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Well I don’t care, she deserves it—she’s not nice and so selfish and thinks she’s better than everyone. I HATE HER!!” </span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I think of the perfect quote—<i>what a nerd am I? </i>“Aleena, you should be kind to all people, even if they are rude to you—“</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She interrupts me with a skeptical look that says <i>why on earth would I do that??</i></span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“—not because they are nice, but because <i>you</i> are.”</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For once, always-ready-with-a-comeback Aleena is speechless.</span></p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With TTC student, Vanitha, while waiting for the food to be served at dinner time:</span></b></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Madi chechi, 8 days…you don’t go,” Vanitha says, crestfallen. Suddenly, her face shows that an exciting thought has occurred to her, and she asks, “Madi chechi, any time you see Obama?”</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Well, I saw him once. Before he was president. He came to a university in my city to give a speech and get support before the election.”</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The handful of girls seated around us burst with remarks of delight and admiration.</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Vanitha silences the din; she has something important to say. “Madi chechi, next time you see Obama…you tell him hello from all 2<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>nd </sup>year TTC students, okay?? We love Obama! At election time, we are praying for him!”</span></span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I tell her I’ll do my best to pass on the message.</span></p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With Gracy Kochamma, in the kitchen:</span></b></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Hi Gracy Kochamma! Sukham aano?” (How are you?)</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Sukham alla,” she replies (not good).</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh no…vedana undo?” I ask (Do you have any pain? (‘head pain’, ‘stomach pain,’ etc are frequent expressions for being sick)).</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Vedana alla” (no, not pain). I wait for an explanation. She pauses to think and then smiles at the problem of having something to say but not knowing the words to say it. <i>If she is not unwell physically, then the problem must be interpersonal</i>, I deduce. <i>Maybe a conflict with the new warden. </i>I can tell she is sad, and I smile, too, also with the problem of having something to say but no words to say it. With a helpless look I walk out of the kitchen to wash my plate in the sink outside. <i>What can I say to make her feel better? I </i>wonder. The solution occurs to me and, plate washed, I walk back through the kitchen on my way to go on with my day. I say what I know she’ll understand: “I love Gracy Kochamma.”</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her face brightens and she replies, “Ah, you love Kochamma—Kochamma loves you.”</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I walk out of the kitchen fighting back tears, thinking how much I’m going to miss her. I know that in our little conversation I have in no way lessened whatever is causing her problems, but I have done what I can; I made her smile. And love may not be the cure-all…but then again, maybe it is?</span></p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><h6 style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-weight: normal;"><em><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">“Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”-James Arthur Baldwin</span></em></span></h6><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-87025578370395333172011-07-09T00:48:00.000-07:002011-07-09T00:50:12.615-07:00YAV year=success<p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">…here’s the proof. Please read the following ‘farewell message,’ written to me by Lintu, a second-year TTC student:</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"My dear Madi chechi,</span></i></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">You are first time I am talking in American girl. At the first time I am affraid because what can I do speak english. But you many time helping me. I am speaking not good english. You don’t smile. You help and appreciate me. Then you correct my mistake. I am thanking you. Madi chechi you are good woman. All must learn your good character. You are good role model in all womens. I am not forget. I miss you my 2<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>nd</sup> year TTC and my life. You are beautiful girl. I like your beauty. I like your mind. You are good hard work girl. I like it. You don’t forget Kerala.</span></span></i></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In my life I not like Americans. But you come my hostel, at this time I like Americans. You are a very adjust girl. Madi chechi all time I learn many thing of you. In my life your good qualitys I will use. I will pray God giving good husband. Happy family life. You don’t forget me. I love madi chechi. I miss you. God bless you.</span></i></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">By: your sister, Lintu</span></i></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And that, my friends, makes it all worthwhile. Absolutely.</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><br />
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<p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><p$1><em>“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” –Anais Nin</em></p$1></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-45256142486166850152011-07-06T23:05:00.000-07:002011-07-06T23:10:59.783-07:00the world is round<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have found myself thinking about other YAVs often this week. Mis amigos in Kenya, Northern Ireland, South Korea, Guatemala, Peru, and cities throughout the United States. If I have been feeling down about leaving India, how have THEY been feeling? Maybe sad, too. Maybe happy. Maybe anxious about what comes next, whether its back to school or finding a job. Or maybe anxious about the fact that they don't know what comes next at all?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wrote the following 'note,' entitled "the trade off," on facebook in October 2007. At that time I was a sophomore at FSU and lived in one of the dorms with one of my, to this day, best friends, Levity. I have included the note below; I randomly re-read it the other day and found it appropriate for this time<i>.</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></span><i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"As I sit in my mass-produced desk, in my mass-produced chair, here in my beautiful dorm with my beautiful roommate, lucky to be me, living my beautiful life, I can't help but wishing for the magic ability to whisk back to the past, to the way things used to be. To a different time, or different times, rather, when life seemed a little more carefree.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I wouldn't give to sit in Mr. Joiner's Criminal Justice classroom, studying the familiar faces of serial killers on the cold, watchful walls. To lay on the docks at Camp Kiwanis, aware of only the sun on my face, the breeze in the air, and the rhythmic creaking of the wood. To spend quality time with Dixie on the kitchen floor, seeing no judgment in those golden-brown eyes. To walk down my pitch-black hallway, instinctually avoiding every piece of furniture. To be close to old friends, or to see familiar faces at church.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's ironic how the things we think of as habitual, commonplace, or boring become what we associate with comfort.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Change, however, is inevitable, and requires a sacrifice of that which is comfortable. It's not all bad, though, because what we give up is surely replaced by equally wonderful--if not better--experiences and occurrences.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">To not leave the comforts behind would be to sacrifice the promise and potential of what lies ahead. </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We lose to gain, and we gain to lose. Life is a trade-off. It's a cyclical process that is good and necessary, though not easy. I know this, I agree with it, and I am glad for it.</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>But sometimes, don't you wish you could just go back, if only for a day?"</i> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Indeed, it is unpleasant to exchange comfort for uncertainty. And my life in Kerala has become comfortable (...even without a washing machine, air conditioning, etc ;-)). Although the list of what comes to mind when I think about things I associate with comfort here is drastically different from the one above. When I think of what I associate with comfort in Kerala, I think of daily morning coffee. The smell of wet dirt after a heavy rain. The moment when I take my plates into the kitchen after eating and, without fail, find Gracy Kochamma there chopping vegetables, endlessly. Seeing Jaimol Kochamma every morning. Catch-up conversations with Jim and Maggie. Beating the table with the rhythm of the songs at evening prayer, finally being able to <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/11/prayer.html">sing loudly</a>, too. After school hours, not being able to walk anywhere without one or several of the boarding students hanging all over me. Listening to them as they try to express their latest thought or story or joy or sorrow in English. And so many other things...</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I mentioned in "the trade off," we human beings tend to live under the principle of inertia--we resist change. But what stands out to me, now, in the above piece, are two things: 1. the truly cyclical nature of life--there were so many things that I was missing and feeling nostalgic about as a sophomore in college...and just look at all the wonderful experiences I had then and have had since! And 2, in continuation of that thought, "to not leave the comforts behind would be to sacrifice the promise and potential of what lies ahead." If I am honest with myself, in the midst of my sadness about leaving Kerala, the "promise and potential of what lies ahead" is something of which I have not been very mindful.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two years ago when I posted that note, a wise friend of mine, Jason, commented and responded to the question at the end and said: <i>"Sometimes, but in a few years you will look back and have the same nostalgic memories about where you are now. If you take time to appreciate that then you will be doubly blessed."</i> I find his observation to be as equally powerful and relevant now as I did then.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So here's to appreciating the present and being doubly blessed, and to knowing that, while good things have passed, that good things are also coming :)</span></span><i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The world is round and the place which might seem like the end may only be the beginning." -Ivy Baker Priest </span></span></i>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-52545462061325879482011-07-06T21:35:00.000-07:002011-07-06T23:07:32.975-07:00learning about anywhere doors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, any efforts I have been making to control my sadness about leaving have been complicated by the 50 girls I live with who tell me, every day, how many days I have left and how I'm not allowed to go. "Madi chechi, today it's ten days...DON'T GO!"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">With a sad smile I reply and say that I wish I didn't have to, either. It's kind of cute, though, to see how they are coping with the idea of me leaving; they have all been extra sweet, and I get about a thousand random hugs a day.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yesterday, 6th grader Aleena said to me, "Madi chechi, I wish I had an anywhere door." I told her that I didn't know what an 'anywhere door' was, and she explained that it's a door that you can walk through and go--you guessed it--anywhere. "If I had an anywhere door," she said, "I would come visit you in America every day after school." "That sounds like a pretty good invention, Aleena--I wish I had one, too."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Aleena is one of the many girls I have taught to use my <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/this-post-was-written-on-june-21.html">laptop</a>. Several weeks ago she created a document that's saved to my desktop, and gave me strict instructions NOT to look at it. Well, of course I looked. The title of the document is 'dreams.' It is filled with all kinds of clip art...there is a hot dog, raspberries, a rabbit, a duck, a flower, and more. And there is a list, entitled "Dreams." The first item on the list is: "I want to study well in school." Next is, "I want to go to amrica and be a nurse in a big hospital there."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yesterday, at the end of my conversation about anywhere doors with Aleena, I told her, "Aleena, you are smart. If you continue to work hard and use your intelligence to the fullest, you can go anywhere--you can do anything. Even without an anywhere door."<i> </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"Don't be dismayed at goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before meeting again, and meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends." -Richard Bach</i></span></span></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-22797454783207112122011-07-04T22:35:00.000-07:002011-07-04T23:34:22.875-07:00thoughts about leaving, or, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today I have felt like a glass, filled to the brim. At the slightest nudge--the slightest provocation--I spill over. In tears :(</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Melodramatic, I know. And I confessed this fact to Jim over the phone this evening ("Jim, you're going to think I'm really dumb, but I cried THREE times today")...he thought this was hilarious, and his outrageous laughter at me made me laugh at myself. Now I know who to call when I need a reality check. <i>Madison, you are ridiculous--pull yourself together!</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Okay, I need to pull myself together. If you know me, you know that I hate being sad. I almost always see the 'bright side,' not through conscious effort but by default. I believe in the power of a positive attitude--life is 10% what happens to me, and 90% how I react to it. I'm a naturally happy person, perhaps sometimes annoyingly so. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So here's my problem, as I expressed it to Jaimol Kochamma today: "Kochamma, I am so sad about leaving. And I don't like feeling sad. And I don't want to spend my last two weeks feeling sad and making myself miserable. But how can I possibly NOT be sad?"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sanila Teacher tried reassuring me by telling me that I can always come visit. Which is true. But visit or not, this is a time in my life that can never be recreated. I can always come back to Kerala--I can always keep in touch, to some extent, via letters or email--but this life as I know it--these relationships as they are now--are almost over, and will never be the same. In precisely eleven days. And that is what I mourn.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">What I'm also wondering is, who was it that ever thought that it was a good idea for someone to completely uproot themselves from their home, go somewhere completely new, fall in love with everyone and everything there, and then have to leave? I'd like to have a word with them, please.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Okay just kidding. Obviously it's a good idea, and there are SO many benefits from the YAV program, both for the community of service and the volunteer herself/himself. But the end part...the goodbye part...is just hard :(</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">And then there are all kinds of other worries surrounding going home...What if it's difficult for me to adjust? What if I can't re-find my 'place'? What if reverse culture shock is too much...what if no one understands? WHAT IF I JUST REALLY WANT SOME KAPPA AND MEEN CURRY?!?!?!?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I know I have the love and prayers of a lot of people supporting me right now. Thank you. It is that, and the inevitable passage of time, that will lead me to Saturday, July 16--the day I leave Buchanan. Maggie will be picked up first from her site, Nicholson School. Then, the car will drive her to Buchanan, to collect me and my things. I have a feeling I will either not cry at all...or I will be inconsolable. Poor Maggie--in the case of the latter, you have my sympathy in advance ;-)</span></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Why can't we get all the people together in the world we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I know what I need. I need more hellos." -Charles Schulz</span></span></i></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-44140735372044893032011-06-27T22:28:00.000-07:002011-06-27T22:49:40.844-07:00Ayyo!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ayyo: What does it mean?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I suppose it's our equivalent of 'oops,' 'ouch,' 'oh my gosh,' or any small exclamation used to express shock, disapproval/displeasure, surprise, etc.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the beginning months, it felt so unnatural to say it. Even if I tried to say it at appropriate moments, it just felt...weird.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">So I couldn't help but laugh at myself earlier today when I realized that I've been using the word involuntarily for a while. I was in my room, and had just accidentally dropped my comb in the toilet. "Ayyoo," I muttered to myself.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>When did I start saying that? </i>I wondered. And then I started thinking of all the other little Indian mannerisms I do involuntarily now. The head wobble...saying 'ah' repeatedly when someone is talking to me, to show active listening...making intentional blinks at people as a way to say hi...answering a question negatively with a shrug of my shoulders and a strong blink.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Those are just a few that I can think of at the moment. I don't know when I started doing all of that...maybe seven months ago...maybe six, maybe five...but what I do know is that until I can break myself of these mannerisms, after arriving home to the US, I'm gonna get some strange looks from people, that's for sure. ...Ayyo!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>"Be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars." -Henry Van Dyke</i> </span></span></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-59142453107963069452011-06-27T22:15:00.000-07:002011-11-04T07:16:57.083-07:00appreciating the small moments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is Saturday morning; I am visiting Mandiram for the first time since leaving. Manna is as precious as ever, and, I am happy to say, remembers my name. She asks in her sweet little Manna voice, "Maggie chechi evide a?" (Where is Maggie chechi?). "Innu free alla," I tell her. "Program unde." (She's not free today, she has a program). I tickle her and then put her on the ground, off to search for Mathew Uncle.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I find him in his room, as expected. He is cradling his paralyzed right arm in his lap, as he always does. His face lights up--"I thought you had gone back to America already," Mathew Uncle says. "No, not for another three weeks." I remind him that I've been back at Buchanan for the past month, and tell him what I've been doing there. Our topic of conversation then begins to meander every which way, and Mathew Uncle honors his reputation of being able to philosophize about any subject, and at length. I ask him about his opinion on women in the ministry, not because I am expecting or wanting a certain answer but because I genuinely like to know what people think, why they think the way they think, and how their experiences have shaped their unique opinions--not just about that subject, but any subject in general.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"That's an interesting question," Mathew Uncle says. "I might have to consult George." "Who is George?" I ask, puzzled. He smiles and his face shows that he is searching for an explanation. "George is my alter ego...my other personality, you could say. Sometimes I don't know what I think about something, so I have to ask George." I am thoroughly amused by this information and the conversation continues on; after about thirty minutes, I take my leave of Mathew Uncle. And George, too, of course.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I visit more of the appachens and amachees, lastly going to see Babu Kochamma, one of the paying residents. She laughs more than she speaks, as usual, and I find myself remembering the last time I visited with her like this. It was both Maggie's and my last day at Mandiram, and we gave a photo of the two of us to several of the appachens and amachees with whom we had become especially close, each one with a personal message on the back. Sitting in Babu Kochamma's room now, I notice that photo displayed above her TV. Eventually I tell her that I must go; she follows me out to her porch and, tightly gripping my arm and looking up into my face, exhorts me to "please remember me; I am a widow and have no children of my own." I promise her that I will, always.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It is Saturday afternoon; I am standing with Jim in front of Jaimol Kochamma's front door. We have just come from partaking in one of our favorite treats, after having departed from Mandiram: coffee and a donut at Ann's Bakery. Before leaving the bakery, which is near Kochamma's house, I thought, <i>you know, this might be the last time I can visit Jaimol Kochamma. Why don't I stop by and bring her and her family some donuts? </i>Now that we are standing in front of her door, however, I wonder if this is a good idea. "Jim, what if they are sleeping??" It is around 3pm, not an unlikely nap time, and the house is quiet.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Getting no encouragement or helpful advice from Jim (thanks a lot, Jim!), I take my chances and ring the doorbell. I breathe a sigh of relief as it is promptly answered by Jaimol Kochamma's husband, M.P. Joseph Achen. "Hi, Achen!" I say. "We came to visit." He graciously shows us in, and we find Jaimol Kochamma there, too. I hand her the box of donuts, accidentally with my left hand. Achen gently points out my error, but not in a reproachful way--they lived in the US for several years and know that differentiating between which hand you use to give someone something is not a practice there. I laugh at myself, thinking that after ten months I would remember not to do that. Like Earth Kitt, "I am learning all the time--the tombstone will be my diploma."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We spend a few minutes chatting with Achen and Kochamma; Kochamma and I discuss next Saturday's farewell meeting. It will be a chance for the three volunteers, our supervisors, and the YAV India Program Coordinator, Thomas John Achen, to come together and have a formal 'sendoff' meeting, during which time we reflect on the positives of the year and talk about how to move forward and pave the way for the next volunteers. Sitting in Jaimol Kochamma's living room, however, we decide that there is no need for her and I to attend the meeting, as I am not leaving. Thomas John Achen, you have hereby been informed ;-)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It is Saturday evening; the power is out. I am sitting on the front steps of my hostel, taking advantage of what little daylight remains in the company of several of the TTC and Buchanan boarding students. There is the excited talk and laughter of which only teenage girls are capable, and I feel complete contentment as I enjoy the uncommonly cool breeze, a downpour on the horizon. I listen to the chatter and with astonishment realize, <i>I actually know what they're saying.</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Eighth grade Shanu runs up to us, a piece of twine wrapped around her head, adorned with a hibiscus flower. She dramatically stops in front of the group and in her most bellowing, theatrical voice, proclaims, "I AM QUEEN SHANU. MADI CHECHI, YOU COME WITH ME!"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I decide to defy Her Majesty. "Venda!" (no!), I yell back. Queen Shanu jumps up and down, stomps her feet, and shakes her head in rage, the hibiscus flower flying out of her crown in the process.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Anu, Athira, and Vava decide I need a new hairstyle and set to work without delay. Joshmi takes the earrings out of her ears and puts them in mine. Shiva Renjini sticks a <i>pottu </i>on my forehead; with this finishing touch, I am pronounced <i>sunthari</i> (beautiful). A princess in Queen Shanu's court. </span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Love builds up the broken wall</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and straightens the crooked path.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Love keeps the stars in the firmament</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and imposes rhythm on the ocean tides.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Each of us is created of it</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and I suspect</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">each of us was created for it."</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>-Maya Angelou</i></span></span></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-71932065257851573462011-06-26T22:51:00.000-07:002011-06-27T22:48:01.256-07:00a picture's worth a thousand words...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This post was written on June 21. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">In many ways, this year has been an experience of sharing. In many ways…</span></i><span style="font-size: small;">so</span><i><span style="font-size: small;"> many ways. The least impressive way, but the way that I’m going to comment on now, is regarding material possessions. I brought with me to India, for example, my laptop and digital camera. There inevitably came a day, perhaps last October, when one of the boarding students asked, "Can you show me how to use your laptop? Can I take some photos with your camera?"</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">It may not seem like it, but that was a defining moment. It was a moment when I could have said, justifiably, "no, no students are allowed to use my laptop or camera." I could have even blamed it on someone else, and said "no, I’m not supposed to let students use my laptop or camera." But instead, I said "sure—what’s mine is yours."</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe not the most responsible decision. I am well aware of the value (monetary, that is) of what I would have lost if something had happened to either item. But I chose that risk over fostering barriers. Saying "no, you can’t use my camera or laptop," might not seem like it would have constructed a big ‘barrier’ to you, but the barrier hides in the sentiment behind the words, not in the words themselves. Saying "no, you can’t use my camera or laptop" would have been to say "no, you can’t use my camera or laptop, and these are just two out of many things that I have that you will probably never have—they are two more things that remind us all of why I’m different from you; why I’m more privileged than you. There is something special about me and my possessions, more valuable than you and yours, that requires you to keep your distance."</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">So in that defining moment, it didn’t take me long to decide. I’ve never been very possessive over my belongings, anyway, and when the deck is already stacked against you, in terms of people treating you specially or as if you were superior, you do what you can to level the playing field. For me, showing the girls how to use my camera and laptop was a way to do just that.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">It's worth mentioning that allowing the boarding students such freedom with my stuff would have been impossible at a site like Maggie's, Nicholson School, where there are hundreds of girls. Being that I live with only about fifty, I know every girl well individually. I might've felt a little uneasy ten months ago, but I would now trust any of them with anything. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Of course, if I left my laptop with students, I was always bound to be nearby. My camera, however, was a different story—being that it’s waterproof, shockproof, etc (thanks, Mom!), I figured there wasn’t much that anyone could do to hurt it. So letting them play with it, have never-ending photoshoots, and unleash their inner photographers is something that has been fun to watch. I think they have taken more photos with my camera this year than I have!</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">The girls were funny with my laptop. Many of them were at first afraid to touch it, as if it would break or self-destruct by a mere touch of their hand. Given that none of them even knew how to turn it on—to open a program—to play a song—to save a document—it’s really rewarding, now, to see all the things they can do. And I think it was kind of empowering for them. It was a way to show them that they are just as capable of using technology as I am, or anyone else is. Why would I have lorded over itunes, or my photo software, as if the girls would indeed hurt my laptop, when I could just as easily teach them how to use the programs themselves?</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">You know all those photoshoots I just mentioned that they like to have? The photos end up on my computer…the girls look at themselves in picture form with nothing less than delight…they pick out their favorites, I save them to my USB drive, and take them to be printed. I made a trip to my beloved <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/02/aksa-digital-studio-how-i-love-thee.html">Aska Digital Studio</a> yesterday for just that purpose.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">I occasionally get tired of all of the work this photo printing stuff takes. Consider: about 50 students who all want different photos…having to figure out which photos, exactly; making a list; collecting 8 rupees per photo, etc. </span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">But then I remember what it was like to be a teenager and have a digital camera. I remember myspace photos, which turned into facebook photos. I think of the hundreds and hundreds of photos I have saved on my computer, or my external harddrive, all of which document pretty much every year and phase of my life. And I remember that these girls don’t have any of that. Why shouldn’t I give them a piece of it if I can?</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Letting them use my camera—coordinating the effort to organize and print a few photos for them—dealing with the hassle and confusion that sometimes arises out of it—is all worth it when I remember that when Merlin is thirty and has kids of her own, these ten or fifteen photos will be all she has of this chapter of her life. Maybe, when Libiya is in her forties, she will look at the photo that was taken of her last week and think, 'was I ever really that skinny??' …It’s all worth it when I remember that when Lintu, the most narcissistic of them all, finishes her degree and moves somewhere new, she might have a couple photos of her friends back home to show her new friends and neighbors. That, ten or fifteen or twenty years from now, when these girls have many years of teaching under their belts, they can pull out a few photos and remember this time and the friends they had, during their education as teachers-in-training that seemed like it would never end.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">‘Cause here’s the thing: it does end. And I hope that one day, these photos will help them to remember this year in their life; what a wonderful time it was.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose." -Kevin Arnold</span><i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i></div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-90864902832831087462011-06-16T06:45:00.000-07:002011-06-16T06:55:32.448-07:00a note to Paul Dombey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The following passage is taken from Charles Dickens’ <u>Dombey and Son,</u> in which Paul’s views toward leaving his school (permanently, one later learns) are narrated.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“[Mrs Blimber] touched the child upon a tender point. He had secretly become more and more solicitous from day to day, as the time of his departure drew more near, that all the house should like him. From some hidden reason, very imperfectly understood by himself—if he understood at all—he felt a gradually increasing impulse of affection, towards almost everything and everybody in the place. He could not bear to think that they would be quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He wanted them to remember him kindly; and he had made it his business even to conciliate a great, hoarse, shaggy dog, chained up at the back of the house, who had previously been the terror of his life: that even he might miss him when he was no longer there" (Dickens 175). <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh little Paul, I know how you feel. I’ve tried befriending the dogs, too. Unfortunately they are stray and wary of people….but maybe after a month's time they’ll wonder at the absence of the madama who used to call to them sometimes during her morning walks with the children.</div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-91140384709543777002011-06-16T06:34:00.000-07:002011-06-16T06:45:46.158-07:00unfinished business<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This post was written on June 14.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>On my wall in my bedroom, I have two lists: one is entitled “ongoing projects”; the other, “long term goals.” Both were created about ten months ago, now, as a way to remind myself of the things I needed to keep on my mind on a daily basis, as well as in the long view. With one month left in Kerala, now seems like a good time to evaluate how well I’ve done.</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The “ongoing projects” list reads:</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 1. Class lesson plans</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 2. KNH Hostel</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 3. Writing project</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 4. Zumba</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 5. Blog</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>How well did I keep up with all of those, you ask? Well, teaching up to 5 periods a day, it would have been impossible to function without lesson plans. So I’ve been good about being prepared. My weekly visits with the girls of the KNH Hostel have gone well, although there <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">has</span> been a week or two here and there that I haven’t been able to meet with them due to scheduling conflicts on both of our parts. The ‘writing project’ refers to an English ‘magazine’ that I was supervising/editing for about half of the year—it got 1</i><sup><i>st</i></sup><i> place in a local competition! Exercise class, Zumba, has continued on, even if it’s occasionally just me and Aleena (which doesn’t bother either of us a bit :)). And I’ve been blogging as frequently as I hoped to, which makes me happy for the sake of keeping all of you informed, and for having my own record of the most memorable people/places/events of this year.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The “long term projects” list reads:</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 1. Learn Malayalam</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 2. Lose 5kg </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 3. Be accepted to Seminary</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 4. “Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> unknown to you”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> 5. …be the best YAV ever!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Now, I certainly did not learn Malayalam. Fluently, I mean. But I can read and write, understand a fair amount, and have a decent sized vocabulary/speaking ability of my own. I think if I were here for another year, I’d be in business! And I did lose 5 kg (although, I gained it before I lost it...but who’s counting?). I was accepted to Seminary, and I’ll speak on the 4</i><sup><i>th</i></sup><i> task in the next paragraph. With regard to the 5</i><sup><i>th</i></sup><i>, I may not have been the best YAV ever, but I was the best YAV that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I</span> could be, and if you ask me, that’s a better measure, anyway.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>On to the 4</i><sup><i>th</i></sup><i> task: “Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle unknown to you.” This is one point where I may have, at times, fallen short. I was reminded of this task on my list today as I was walking from school to my bedroom, where I wanted to drop a few things off. I had just taught 3 classes in a row, was muddy after walking around campus in the rain all day, and just wanted a moment of quiet. So I may not have been very friendly as girl after girl stopped or approached me in the hallway with cries of “HI MADISON MISS!” “Madison Miss, how are you??” “Madison miss, chor undo?” (Did you have lunch?). “Madison Miss, evide pokuka?” (Where are you going?). “Madison Miss, those are beautiful earrings!” “Madison Miss, HI!!!!!!” I wanted to get through the throng, FAST, and gave rushed answers that didn’t invite conversation to all of the girls as I passed by. Just as I thought I was home free, I heard another “MADISON MISS!” behind me, accompanied by running footsteps. I momentarily considered continuing walking as if I hadn’t heard, but looked over my shoulder to at least give a “hi” back and wave.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Who did I see but little 6</i><sup><i>th</i></sup><i> grade Roopa running up to me, with something in her hand. “Madison Miss, a present for you!” It was a card, wrapped in a handmade envelope that had a red ribbon pinned on it. The annoyance I had been feeling the moment earlier melted away as I accepted Roopa’s card and told her thank you, with a huge, genuine smile that had been missing from my face just prior.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I finally made it to my room and opened Roopa’s handmade card. The front has a border of flowers and butterflies, a bear, and my name encircled by a heart. The inside says “Dear Miss, I wish you a happy birthday! God bless you with my blessing! By, Roopa G. Nath,” accompanied by swirls, stars, bows, and the like. The back of the card is decorated with a house surrounded by green trees, a lake with a duck, and a smiley-faced sun who says “Good morning Madison Miss!”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Roopa, how could you have possibly known exactly how to brighten my day?</span> I wondered. And I thought of the quote on my list: “be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle unknown to you.” Roopa=success. Madison=fail. All those girls who spoke to me in the hallway…what if I had taken a moment to talk to them, rather than hurrying by, inwardly annoyed? What if that would have made them smile? What might they face at home after they leave school at 3:25 every day?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>So it seems there’s at least one thing on my ‘to do’ lists that I can’t yet check off—but from now on, I’ll be working on it a little more conscientiously. Thanks for the reminder, Roopa :)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"I expect to pass through life but once. If therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again." -William Penn<o:p></o:p></div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-88943361685763171032011-06-12T22:18:00.000-07:002011-06-12T22:29:54.764-07:00a quiet weekend and looking ahead<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, I take back any negative thoughts I ever had about the new warden, Mariyamma Kochamma. She’s old school, for sure, but I really respect and like her now. All but 3 of the TTC students—Tincy, Sanu, and Deepa—went home this weekend, so it was the three of them, me, and Mariyamma Kochamma alone in our hostel. It was great to have some quality hang out time with them, Kochamma included. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had a little ‘writing assignment’ given to me by Sanila Teacher (to write something for the diocesan women’s magazine about my time at Buchanan), so I camped out with Sanu, Tincy, and Deepa on the floor of their room, them surrounded by all of their papers/work, and me with my laptop, typing away. They intermittently asked me for help, and of course we randomly chatted. They are really wonderful girls.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What else, what else…this upcoming Thursday, Maggie, Jim, and I are heading to Thomas John Achen’s house for our final retreat. CRAZY. We’ll be together until Sunday, when the three of us are giving the message at a church in Achen’s area. Then, we’ll return to our sites. On July 2<sup>nd</sup> we have our formal farewell meeting with Achen and our supervisors. And two weeks later, on July 15, we’ll leave our sites for good and go to Thomas John Achen’s house to enjoy each other’s company for the last time, boarding our flight home on July 18. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had to choose one word to describe how all of this feels it would be: surreal. I just re-read the above paragraph, and it feels like it’s written about someone else, not me. Can it be that I will be seeing much-missed friends and family in just over a month? Can it be that I’m going to have to say goodbye to the people I love, and all the things I love about my life in Kerala, so soon?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Surreal, that’s what it is.</span><br />
<br />
<em>"We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams." -Jeremy Irons</em></div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-72367150764042862742011-06-10T01:25:00.000-07:002011-06-10T01:30:29.679-07:00rain days, shopping, singing-along, pretending to study, and more!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">This post was written on June 8.<br />
<br />
<em>Today it didn’t rain ONCE. However due to yesterday’s frequent and copious rain spells, school today was cancelled because of flooding. I guess in Kerala we have ‘rain days’ instead of ‘snow days’?</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>At first I was kind of bummed. I had been looking forward to my classes and had a good lesson plan, darn it! But it’s funny how the days you expect to be the worst can turn out to be the best, and vice versa. Today was one of those days. So was yesterday.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>Yesterday was one of those surprising days in that I expected it to be good but it ended up being sort of…blah. No one’s fault, really, I just found myself very much in the background amidst the chaos of the new school year. I only had 4 classes to teach, 2 of which ended up being cancelled, and all the teachers are so busy with class rosters, more new admissions, myriad lists, and the like, that it was a little lonely. But after-school ended up being better than school itself.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>Although today more than made up for yesterday. It was, as I mentioned, a surprising day in that my first thought of the morning, upon finding out school was cancelled due to flooding, was, ‘oh great, another day of nothing.’ But then, I resolved to make it something. </em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>I went walking/jogging with a pack of children, we played on the playground, and I took a shower (or, a bucket, as Maggie, Jim, and I affectionately call the act)—all before breakfast. Breakfast was one of my other favorites (next to uppu mav, which I mentioned in my last post)—pal appam and kadala curry. I spent more time with the younger children and then read some of my latest book—Charles Dickens’ <u>Dombey and Son</u>. Then I kept one of the TTC students company in the study hall while she was working on some homework, and before we knew it, it was lunchtime. </em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>Okay, so maybe the morning doesn’t sound all that exciting. But it was enjoyable—a good mix of fun and rest. The afternoon got more interesting, though; after lunch, I went with the <place><placename>Speechly</placename> <placetype>College</placetype></place> students to Chingavanam. (<place><placename>Speechly</placename> <placetype>College</placetype></place> is a college (surprise!) located on the Buchanan campus. There are a handful of Speechly students who live in the boarding hostel where the TTC (teacher training course) students and I live. Chingavanam is the nearest town). </em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>It was great to hang out with the Speechly girls. I don’t spend a whole lot of time with them regularly as they speak English fluently and were I to be super friendly with them, it would probably attract some animosity from the TTC students, etc, and look like I was showing favoritism just because the Speechly girls speak English. So it was really nice to get out with them and not feel bad for socializing with them in front of other people, for once. </em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>We got ice cream and checked items off the LONG shopping list that had been given to us by the TTC students (they aren’t allowed to leave the Buchanan campus). We arrived back to Buchanan just in time for me to make it to my <time hour="15" minute="0">3PM</time> engagement with the KNH Hostel (a hostel located on Buchanan’s campus that is funded by a charity in <country-region><place>Germany</place></country-region>. It houses girls who are orphaned or from underprivileged families). Jim came, too, guitar in hand, and we taught them a few English songs. We also performed a couple—isn’t that a funny thought? ME, singing, for a crowd?? As if I actually had some sort of vocal talent?? …haha!</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>It went really well—for most of the girls, it was probably their first time seeing/hearing a guitar played in person. The favorite song was ‘Kumbaya’; the fun, fast-paced version, that is. By the end of our hour with them, they could sing it by themselves!</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>From the guitar/singing program I went straight to exercise class. The girls who were ‘regulars’ last year still come, as well as many of the boarding students who are new as of this year. The new students, especially, make it really fun and keep me laughing with their goofy dance moves.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>Not too long after exercise class there was a knock on my door. It was Joshmi, one of the TTC students. She asked if I was free, to which I replied yes, and she then asked me to come to her room. It kind of seemed like something might be wrong, and after the two of us sat down on her bed, she said “Madi chechi, we are really sad. Last year we got to talk to you all the time but now with the new Kochamma (warden), we don’t talk as much.” I said, “Joshmi, I know! I miss you guys a lot. With your new schedule and all of your study time I’m afraid to interrupt and get you in trouble with Kochamma.” Part of the problem is also that, due to the new study schedule, rule of absolute quiet, etc, most of the girls now stay confined in their rooms, with the doors closed, rather than roaming around the hostel like they used to. Anyway I thought it was really cute that they had obviously made a group decision to call me into their room (there were other students present, too—Deepa, Merlin, and Tincy) so we could have some intentional hang out time. I ended up staying for about an hour and a half—it’s amazing how a closed door and quiet talking can make it seem as though those inside are actually studying ;) And we decided that such visits would happen more often from now on. Before, I just felt bad interrupting, and I really missed the girls, even during just the past week—but now I know they’ve missed me, too.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><br />
</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em>One very terrifying detail of my otherwise good day that I’ve forgotten to mention is that a monstrous, impossibly big cockroach jumped down the back of my churidar while I was with the Speechly students shopping in Chingavanam…TRAUMATIZING.</em><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: AR-SA;">“Men often become what they believe themselves to be. If I believe I cannot do something, it makes me incapable of doing it. But when I believe I can, then I acquire the ability to do it even if I didn't have it in the beginning.” –Mahatma Ghandi</span></div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-83611716337442805122011-06-10T01:20:00.001-07:002011-06-10T01:22:54.864-07:00just posting for the sake of posting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This post was written on June 4.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Reasons to love monsoon season:</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>-It’s not miserably hot!</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>-who doesn’t love a good heavy rain?</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>-Plenty of water supply (days of no running water and having to draw it from the well are OVER!)</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>-It’s not miserably hot!</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Yep, I’m loving monsoon season. And the fact that it’s not miserably hot DOES deserve to be mentioned twice. That, combined with all the fruits that are in season, might make this my favorite time of year in Kerala. Mangoes fresh off the tree? Yes, please!</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>The new warden is proving to put her money where her mouth is. The TTC girls have been following a strict schedule and things are a LOT quieter around here than they used to be. However she is a genuinely nice, caring person, and has shown a lot of emotional care and concern for the TTC students and their worries over their classes, etc. Now that I have been around her for a few days, I have no doubt that the girls will come to love and appreciate her in spite of her strict rules. (Now if only she would stop knocking on my door to wake me up (15 minutes too early, I might add) for morning prayer! I managed to somehow get myself there every morning for the past nine months, didn’t I??)</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Today was an average Saturday. The rain stopped long enough to make it a good idea to hurry up and do some laundry, so that was an accomplishment. I tried to play Uno with the younger girls but the new warden insisted that they should study, instead. I took advantage of that time to take a little nap (by that time it was raining—perfect nap time!). Later I spent some time with the TTC students, and we had our first exercise class (zumba) of the new school year. </em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Did I mention we had one of my favorite breakfasts this morning?? Uppu mav!</em></span><br />
<br />
"Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing." -Camille Pissarro</div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-6314118717609950772011-06-02T23:33:00.001-07:002011-06-02T23:41:40.542-07:00transitioning back, and party's over, folks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, this post isn’t going to be nearly as negative as the title sounds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With regard to the first part, I’m back at Buchanan! Leaving Mandiram was a lot sadder than I ever imagined it would be, but I guess I should count it a blessing that I was able to spend time there at all, especially given that it was a much, much more positive experience than I ever dreamed it would be. I had to fight back the tears (not entirely successfully) as I left on Tuesday morning and sincerely meant it when I told everyone I would come back to visit before going home to the US in July. There’s no way I’m leaving without seeing Raju, the balika girls, the wardens, or all the other people I’ve come to love there one last time!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon arriving to Buchanan I found only the headmistress, Omana Teacher, and Mariyamma Kochamma, who were all registering new students. It was so good to see them but after just a minute or two I had to look on in amusement as the two aforementioned teachers debated about whether I’ve gotten ‘more fat’ or ‘more slim’ during summer vacation (the first view argued by Omana Teacher; the second by Mariyamma Kochamma). In reality I don’t think my weight has changed at all—in fact I know it hasn’t because I have a scale. By now I am unsurprised by such comments, and have never taken them offensively, but I couldn’t help think of Mandiram, where no one ever made remarks, positive or negative, about my appearance, what I was wearing, etc. It was refreshing to spend 3 months not being scrutinized!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nevertheless I really was happy to be back at Buchanan, especially the next day, which was the first day of school. Getting to reconnect with all of the teachers, students, and especially the boarding students was just as fun as I imagined it would be. It ended up being a somewhat tedious morning, though, because even though all the students came for the first day, it was really just continued registration and sorting out the divisions—there was no actual class. Thankful when lunchtime rolled around, I went back to the hostel to wash my hands and who did I find but ALEENA!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You may remember that <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/02/taste-of-goodbye.html">before summer vacation, I blogged</a> about the students who would not be coming back for the new school year; Aleena was one of them. Her mother’s job was being transferred to somewhere in <place>North India</place>, so her family was moving there. Aleena might have the wild imagination of a fifth grader, but is not one to make things like that up, so I was resigned to the reality that the new school year at Buchanan would be sans-Aleena. Imagine my delight, then, to see that boisterous little (now) 6<sup>th</sup>-grader standing on the front porch of the hostel!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the initial ‘oh-my-gosh,-what-are-you-doing-here?!?!?’ (she explained that her mother’s transfer got delayed a year), I gave her a hug and quite honestly said “Aleena, seeing you is the best surprise of my day.” And off we walked to lunch.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The other unforeseen development of the day was the arrival of a new warden. I had heard whispers of it among the teachers in the staff room, but it wasn’t clear if Gracy Kochamma, the current warden, was leaving (which would have been really sad; she has come to be my Kerala ‘grandmother figure’—I love her dearly!) or if there would be two wardens (which didn’t make sense, as there are only about 15 Buchanan boarding students). Turns out that there are, in fact, now two wardens—Gracy Kochamma will continue to be responsible for the Buchanan boarding students, and the new warden, a retired, long time teacher, is in charge of the TTC (teacher training course) students.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve probably mentioned in the past that I live with the TTC students. As young as 18 or as old as 23, they are my friends and my peers. Our hostel is located right next to a smaller building that houses Gracy Kochamma and the Buchanan boarding students. In the past, everyone answered to Gracy Kochamma, who could be strict at times and whose word was always the last but was/is very much loved and respected by all of the children, the Buchanan boarding students and TTC students included. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The TTC students have always had a lot of freedom. After dinner, especially, we would lock the doors of our hostel and be on our own until morning, Gracy Kochamma in the next building over should we ever need anything. The TTC girls were diligent with their studies but also took ample time for socializing; they lived according to their own schedules. Sure, they would sometimes spend the evening hanging out or listening to music, rushing to finish their homework in the morning before class, but part of being independent is learning to manage oneself, one’s balance between work and play, and being responsible for the consequences of one’s actions, whether good or bad. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well…party’s over, folks. The new warden is not only directly in charge of the TTC students…she lives IN our hostel. Right across the hall from me. She made it quite clear on the first day that things were going to be changing around here: now the girls will have a daily schedule, which begins at <time hour="5" minute="30">5:30AM</time> and includes plenty of study time at various intervals during the day, and two small windows of limited ‘personal time.’ During ‘personal time’ they are allowed to talk, but during study time there should be complete silence. Their rooms will be inspected regularly for neatness/cleanliness. ‘Lights out’ is at <time hour="22" minute="30">10:30PM</time>. This is a HUGE change from the study-when/how-much-you-want, stay-up-as-late-as-you-want, do-whatever-you-want-(within reason) way of life before.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have mixed feelings about the new military regime; on the one hand, it doesn’t really affect me or my daily comings and goings at all. On the other hand, I’m a big fan of the value and lessons of independence—being self-reliant, reaping what one sows, whether positive or negative, and learning from it all in the process—and dislike the idea of treating the TTC students like mindless children who have to have every action and behavior dictated to them. A third point of view is the what-doesn’t-kill-you-makes-you-stronger route; perhaps they will in the long-term benefit from the disciplined environment and routine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In any case, it will be a difficult adjustment for them. I, for one, am just so happy to be back with all of my friends, from 6<sup>th</sup> grade Aleena and Praseela to 9<sup>th</sup> grade Athira to 23-year-old TTC student Sanu—I have missed them all so much! I even got a big welcome from Amamma, the cook. She speaks zero English and is one example of many from this year of the bonds and friendship that can be formed even with little to no verbal communication. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the staffroom today Manju Teacher observed with delight that I had a birthday over summer vacation and am now 23—‘prime marriageable age!’ She and the other teachers then started talk of finding me a ‘tall and beautiful’ Malayalee husband in the next 6 weeks so that I can stay. They are so funny—I just love them :)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As time dwindles, it becomes more precious. May Maggie, Jim, and all the YAVs all over the world continue to make the best of our last 6 weeks. We’ve come along way, haven’t we? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I have been very happy with my homes, but homes really are no more than the people who live in them.” –Nancy Reagan</span></em></div></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-11132840896119368372011-05-26T22:07:00.000-07:002011-05-26T22:17:00.806-07:00some good ol' measuring in love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This post was written on May 25.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>My heart is just so full.</i><br />
<br />
<i>This morning, we had the 'send off' for the graduating class of nursing students. As I will be leaving Mandiram on Tuesday, it was a send off for me, too.</i><br />
<br />
<i>In front of the group of 100+ people, Thomas Samuel Achen, Mandiram's chaplain, addressed the outgoing nursing students. He spoke in Malayalam, but from the little I could catch, he was congratulating them on reaching this milestone and offering some reflections and advice as they move on in their careers.</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Then, he addressed me, and spoke about the things I have been doing during my time at Mandiram. One committment that he commented on, in particular, was my tutoring of Monisha and Sunitha, which I touched upon in my <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/05/gender-equality-angry-blogpost-rant.html">last post</a>. Thomas Samuel Achen's office is next to the room where we have our daily lessons, so our chatter interspersed with laughter has probably disrupted his afternoons on more than one occasion.</i><br />
<br />
<i>He mentioned how he just finished reading <u>The Shack</u>, upon my recommendation. I'm fairly certain that no one in the room had ever heard of the book, but he told the crowd how it portrays God and the trinity, not as a heirarchy from Father to Son to Holy Spirit but as a relationship of community, equality, and sharing between three who are equal and one. He went on to espouse the view expressed in the book that</i> that<i> is how God intends creation to function: just like the trinity--as a relationship of community, equality, and sharing, sans heirarchy. Furthermore, he echoed the idea that the notion of heirarchy is something invented by humans in order to impose our own sense of order on the world.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Now, this is a big deal coming from an Achen, in a church that is all about heirarchy and a society that is, too. And as Thomas Samuel Achen commended me (I didn't entirely deserve all of it, I might add!), he said that in overhearing and sometimes looking in on my English lessons with Monisha and Sunitha, he had seen that equality in practice; that I didn't approach them in a teacher-student fashion, but as friends.</i><br />
<br />
<i>There's no other way I would have done it, of course, even though, according to Kerala standards, I am technically Monisha and Sunitha's elder, not to mention a guest, which makes me doubly 'worthy' of respect and deference. So I'm glad that my time with the girls could reflect to them, and others , too, including Thomas Samuel Achen, that the most genuine relationships are based on equality and sharing, not heirarchy and positions of superiority/inferiority. </i><br />
<br />
<i>I have so treasured my time here. If you've been keeping up with my blogs throughout the past few months, you know that when I <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/03/starting-over.html">first came to Mandiram in March</a>, I wasn't thrilled. I missed Buchanan a lot. But now, three months later, I have come to love and appreciate Mandiram immensely. If I had been here from the beginning of my time in Kerala, I have no doubt that I would have come to love it just as much as Buchanan. I am so excited for next year's volunteer, who will be here from September onwards and get the full 'Mandiram experience.' As for me, I feel so blessed that I got to experience this community and the people here, even if only for a short while.</i><br />
<br />
<i>As I prepare to leave Mandiram in just a few days, I find myself reflecting on the most memorable happenings. I have many good memories of sitting around the dinner table with the wardens, especially during the few weeks Maggie was here, laughing about who-knows-what, and the moment when Jijo would always announce "ok, finished," as a way to signal that everyone was done and we could all get up and wash our plates and hands. Or how Jijo, to this day, persists in calling me 'Madison Aunty,' to which I promptly reply 'Aunty venda!' (meaning, don't call me aunty), after which he grins and continues on with whatever he was saying. I recall all the times that Manna, a 2-year old member of the balika (orphanage) would see me from impossibly far away and yell "Madi chechi!!!!"</i><br />
<br />
<i>I think of many Malayalam lessons with Thomas Samuel Achen (3 times a week for 1.5 hours each time), which more often than not turned into lengthy discussions on life, religion, current events, and more. I remember all the small conversations I've had with the appachens and amachees (residents of the old age home), each one, however simple, a small victory for my Malayalam skills. I think of how everyone from the cooks to the principal of the nursing school would dote on me; the many talks I've had with the first-year nursing students about topics from nurse-patient dialogues in English to who among us has a <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/03/stuffing-envelopes-science-experiment.html">lover</a>. I think of my favorite residents of the old age home, including RAJU, who knows all. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Let me tell you about Raju. He has some sort of mental disability, although I don't know what it is. His speech is hardly intelligible even to those who actually speak Malayalam (aka, not me). But he is SO FUNNY. When Maggie was here we had this little ritual with Raju that involved, whenever the three of us encountered each other, pointing at each other and exclaiming each other's names, followed by laughter and more laughter. "Maggie...Raju...Madison....AHAHAHAHAHA!"</i><br />
<br />
<i>Raju is one who most would consider to not be 'all there' (sorry if that's politically incorrect--I'm not trying to be offensive at all, I love Raju!), but Maggie and I have a joke that Raju knows all. He would always seem to catch us when we were doing something that we wanted to go unnoticed (such as, not wanting to be insulting to the person who gave it to us, sneakily throwing a piece of fruit that was too bitter to eat out the window). Oh, Raju. I'm gonna miss you.</i><br />
<br />
<i>On Tuesday, it's off to Buchanan I go. But how lucky am I, to leave one place that I love, for another?</i><br />
<br />
"In African language we say 'a person is a person through other persons.' I would not know how to be a human being at all except I learned this from other human beings. We are made for a delicate network of relationships, of interdependence. We are meant to complement each other. All kinds of things go terribly wrong when we break that fundamental law of our being. Not even the most powerful nation can be completely self-sufficient." -Archbishop Desmond Tutu<i><br />
</i></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-76136630780633090502011-05-18T04:14:00.000-07:002011-06-18T04:08:07.226-07:00gender equality rant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <i>Note added on 5/27/11: Received some great email feedback about this blog that made me realize that my point may have come across differently than I meant it in my head. The phrase "we are a product of our culture" might have been a little strong for what I intended. What I really meant, and failed to express well, is that where we are born plays a large role in determining our world view (for example, what constitutes an acceptable standard of living, our ideas about basic rights, roles in society, etc.). Thanks to Kristen Kraemer for helping me to better express what was already in my head :) You and Reece Smith keep me on my toes!</i><br />
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We are all a product of where we come from. This is neither good nor bad in itself--it's just something that one must acknowledge. We are a product of where we come from, for all the good, bad, ugly, and wonderful that that might bring. In a <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/05/old-habits-die-hard-or-delhi-round-2.html">previous post</a>, I pointed out that I am a product of my culture. In that particular instance, I was commenting on one of the negative aspects of my culture: fully prepared to admit the harm that comes with overgeneralizing, we tend to overconsume. We are wasteful. We have the luxury of not having to always cut corners or find a use for anything that can't be burned. We live in a bubble filled with excess.<br />
<br />
But I am also from a place where I was raised to believe that I can do anything. Where I have never been made to feel inferior to anyone because of my gender. I am from a place where little girls are taught: "You are a girl. You are just as good as any boy--you can do, aspire to, anything that a boy can. You are anyone's equal. You are capable and intelligent; walk uprightly and with confidence. Assert yourself--you are not subservient to anyone. Anything a boy can achieve, you can achieve. Any opportunity is yours, if only you reach out and take it. <i>You can do anything." </i><br />
<br />
...Let me backtrack. You are probably wondering where this rant on gender equality is coming from. Truly, I think it's been subconsciously percolating for a while. Maybe it started in October when I learned that it's not appropriate for girls to whistle. Or maybe on Fridays, teaching at CMS High School, where the classes are co-ed--it always struck me as odd that even though the girls spoke much better English than the boys (I know this from grading their papers) that they would never, ever speak up in class. Or perhaps every Sunday at church when the men get to take communion before the women?<br />
<br />
The point is, it's been percolating. And I'm commenting with respect to both the church in Kerala, and Kerala society as a whole. It's been percolating to the point where at one of my Malayalam lessons last week, I decided to randomly ask my teacher, Thomas Samuel Achen, about his opinion on ordaining women in the church. (Thomas Samuel Achen is the Chaplain at Mandiram. He is a pastor of the Church of South India (CSI), which does not allow ordination of women).<br />
<br />
Achen is a funny guy. Immediately after I asked the question ("What do you think about women being ordained?"), he broke out into a huge smile, fully aware that I had him cornered. Talking to an outspoken young woman who he knew would be starting Seminary in just a few months, he had to choose his words carefully. While chuckling, Achen took my hand in a very grandfatherly, I'm-about-to-tell-you-something-you-don't-want-to-hear type of way and said that personally, he sees no reason why women shouldn't be ordained. He feels that the practice of excluding women is archaic and has no basis in modern theology or society. BUT--his viewpoint represents the minority, and he doesn't foresee anything changing in Kerala any time soon...or ever.<br />
<br />
The conversation with Achen was lighthearted; I had expected an answer along those lines. I have always been aware of Kerala's patriarchal mindset (and not just mindset--Kerala's patriarchal REALITY), and I suppose that that particular manifestation of it--not ordaining women in the CSI--had never bothered me because I knew that it was something that would never affect me. Also, while I don't agree with it, not ordaining women isn't all that shocking of a practice--there are denominations even in the US that don't do it.<br />
<br />
Still, in the days following, I found myself thinking more and more about what it means to be a girl in Kerala. I found myself remembering Shilpa, a 10th grade student at Buchanan who, back in March, asked me to write her a message in her 'autograph' book. On the first page was her own 'about me' page, which will serve as a momento for her to remember her high school years, her likes and dislikes, who her friends were, etc. Among the statements with spaces for answers were "My favorite color is _____." "My biggest role model is _____." "My best attribute is ______." I was amused to read her answers and know something of her beyond the rigidity of the classroom.<br />
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One of the last statements was, "My ambition is ______." Her answer was: to be a good wife.<br />
<br />
Shilpa's autographh book was the first of many that I signed. I quickly realized that her answer was a popular one: "My ambition is to be a good wife."<br />
<br />
Now, don't get me wrong. I do hope to get married one day. I hope to be a 'good wife,' whatever that means. I hope my husband is a good husband. But is that my AMBITION in life??? Is that what I think of when someone asks me what the single greatest thing I hope to do with my LIFE is?? Would I say that now, or in 10th GRADE?<br />
<br />
No, no, and no.<br />
<br />
The real catalyst for this little rant on gender equality, however, took place just last Saturday night. I was helping to clean the chapel before Sunday morning's church service. Having just distributed the hymnals to each row, I went to climb the two steps to the raised area behind the main podiums, where the altar is located. One of the wardens, Jijo, was wrestling with the cloth to cover the altar and looked like he could use a hand.<br />
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I hadn't made it up the first step before he waved his hands, shook his head, and said <i>no no no</i> to me, abruptly stopping me in my tracks and leaving me to wonder what I had done wrong. "This is a holy place," he apologetically said. "No ladies allowed."<br />
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<i>Caught off guard</i> doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. <i>Try not to cry</i> was the first order of business. I know that sounds ridiculous, but while I wouldn't consider myself a sensitive person, times when I <i>can</i> be unexpectedly sensitive are situations when I'm rebuked without warning, especially if I thought I was doing something good at the time. All I wanted to do was help :(<br />
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I managed a smile and probably said something along the lines of "oh, sorry, I didn't know" and sat down. During the next few minutes I tried to look normal, but in truth I was deeply troubled by what had just occurred. Poor Jijo--I think he could tell I was upset. Which made me feel even worse, because it wasn't his fault. He is actually my favorite warden--he is always laughing and singing, and in spite of the fact that his English grammar is terrible, rambles on like only an orator could. <br />
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Like me--like all of us--Jijo is a product of his culture. He genuinely believes--and so does his church--that only men can be allowed in/near holy places, as if women were inherently worth less, or men were inherently more righteous, in God's eyes. Come on--I understand that no matter what degree I hold, you will never, ever let me serve communion. But I can't even go near the ALTAR? Not even to CLEAN it?? (Funny, you would think that was my place...).<br />
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Obviously, I have a problem with this viewpoint on a multitude of levels, one of many being theologically. Before I open that can of worms, however, let me admit that the altar incident was <i>so </i>minor, and I know that. But it was the first time in my life I have been turned away from anything because I am a girl. And the fact that a tiny episode that took place in a span of three seconds was so hurtful to me only made me think of all the people throughout history who have been made to feel inferior or judged or excluded merely because they belong to a certain group. If I got upset over not being allowed near the altar because I'm a girl, what would it have felt to have been black during the Civil Rights movement? To be an immigrant in the US today? To be gay?<br />
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One thing I have neglected to mention is that I was slated to give the sermon the next morning. "You are lower in the chain of the heirarchy of God's love and you are inferior to 50% of the population" is not what one wants to hear before such an event. Part of me considered telling Thomas Samuel Achen what had happened and that I was not willing to preach in a church that did not see me as equal. Another part of me wanted to ditch the sermon I had written the week before and churn out a new one replete with phrases like "God loves all of his children equally," "There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female...(Galatians 3:28)", and "ARE YOU SERIOUS, PEOPLE???"<br />
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But let's face it: even the most passionate, rationally argued, theologically sound sermon from yours truly isn't going to revamp the patriarchal mindset of an entire state. Sunday morning rolled around and I went with Plan C: stick with the original sermon. Because I didn't come to Kerala to advocate for gender equality in the church or society--I came to be present. I came to experience another culture and learn from it, positive and negative aspects included. Standing in front of the congregation and harping about gender equality wouldn't have changed anyone's mind. What <i>would</i> change their minds--or at least get them to question their own viewpoints--would be to go up there as planned, speak confidently, and hold my head up high. And that's what I did.<br />
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Later that day, I was tutoring two girls, Monisha and Sunitha, who volunteer at the hospital and plan to start nursing school next year. Both are 18 years old; we meet every day, if/when we're all free, to study English. That particular Sunday afternoon, we practiced writing a letter to a friend and talking about activities that are done at different times of day. After about 45 minutes we closed our notebooks for the day and went to have afternoon tea.<br />
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Monisha, shy when we first started having English lessons about 2 weeks ago, is now a regular chatterbox. As we sat around the table with our tea and cookies, she commented on my sermon from that morning. "Madi chechi, your message was super. You know, that is my biggest dream: to one day give a speech, in English, to a huge audience of people. Like you did."<br />
<br />
Monisha, you are a girl. You are just as good as any boy...You are anyone's equal...<i>You can do anything.</i><br />
<br />
<i><u>Origami Emotion</u></i><br />
<i>Hope is </i><br />
<i>folding paper cranes</i><br />
<i>even when your hands get cramped</i><br />
<i>and your eyes tired,</i><br />
<i>working past blisters and </i><br />
<i>paper cuts, </i><br />
<i>simply because something in you</i><br />
<i>insists on</i><br />
<i>opening its wings.<br />
-Elizabeth Barrette</i></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-22734125591322018362011-05-12T09:27:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:36:04.159-07:00all-india wrap up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's see, where did I leave you last? Somewhere around Delhi, I think. In the interests of wrapping up the "all-India trip" blog series and getting back to normal life, here's a brief (maybe?) summary of the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.1705634956356.2084982.1102470062&l=945b19b50d">highlights</a> of the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.1706046646648.2085118.1102470062&l=974c672160">rest of the trip</a>:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After Delhi, we went to Agra, where we stayed at a little place called the Shanti Lodge ('shanti' means peace in Hindi). The best part of our hotel--which was just your average, very basic backpacker place--was its rooftop restaurant. With an amazing view of the Taj Mahal, it was somewhat surreal to be eating rice and dal and every few minutes thing,<em> look, it's the Taj Mahal!</em> A couple minutes later...<em>whoa, it's still there.</em> A few minutes later...<em>oh man, there it is again.</em> Other than seeing the Taj at sunrise the next morning, one of my favorite moments of that portion of the trip was randomly getting lost in Agra. Trying to find our way through the maze of streets to our hotel, somehow we took a wrong turn. We ended up in a very interesting area that had a variety of sights, sounds, and smells, some more pleasant than others. But it was<em> real</em>. The everyday-ness of it was, in its own way, enchanting, and both eye-opening and refreshing after being in mostly 'touristy' places.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Following Agra was Jaipur, located in the desert state of Rajasthan. On a whim, we decided to visit the local astrologer. Maggie had her horoscope prepared, and Jim had his palm read. Apparently, Jim will not have a happy marriage. Poor guy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our second stop in Rajasthan was the city of Bikaner. We stayed at Vijay's Guest House, which is...you guessed it...actually Vijay's house. Vijay was very welcoming and accomodating, and after having made the overnight train journey from Jaipur to Bikaner, we quickly settled in at his house and prepared for our next adventure: camel safari!! Accompanying us on the safari was a random traveler from Ireland, Kristen. She was quite a talker but the four of us got along well and thoroughly enjoyed our venture into the desert. Riding a camel isn't as uncomfortable as one would imagine...and camels are just such silly-looking creatures! God must have been in a comical mood when he created them ;) I'll always remember going to sleep under the stars, a heavy blanket shielding me from the cold wind of the desert night, the dunes and scrub bathed in light from the full moon. And being amused to learn that the toilet was on the other side of the dune...any dune. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last stop on the trip was Goa. After a whirlwind three weeks, a calm three days at the beach was PERFECT. We literally did nothing but play in the ocean, walk on the beach, and lounge around on floaties. Hakuna matata.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The evening of April 23, we boarded our train to leave Goa. We woke up the next morning in beautiful, sunny, hot, humid, familiar, wonderful Kerala...my favorite part of all of <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2011/04/incredible-india.html#comments">'incredible India'</a> :)</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Love builds up the broken wall and straightens the crooked path. Love keeps the stars in the firmament and imposes rhythm on the ocean tides. Each of us is created of it and I suspect each of us was created for it." -Maya Angelou</span></em></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6927741395376320970.post-55835845683758111012011-05-06T01:44:00.000-07:002011-05-06T02:09:42.426-07:00old habits die hard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">After Amritsar, we went back to Delhi for a day en route to Agra. Having done most/all of our sightseeing the first time we were in Delhi (4 days at the beginning of the trip--really enjoyed it but nothing post-worthy), we decided that we wouldn't try to squeeze more things into our 'in between' day there, but rather use it as a day of rest and recuperation.<br />
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To that end, we hung around our hotel for a good while and eventually ventured out to use the internet. While at the internet cafe, we thought, "you know, what better to do on a nothing day than see a movie!" So we looked up movie theaters in Delhi, and it wasn't long before we found what looked like utopia: Saket Select Citywalk Mall.<br />
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According to the website, it had not only a movie theater but...a Hard Rock Cafe. TGI Fridays. McDonalds. Subway. CINNABON. Having been deprived of all of the above for the past 8 months, we quickly became more excited about the food at the mall than the mall or movie itself.<br />
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The Saket Mall was...more than we expected. It was easily nicer/more amazing/fancier than any mall I've been to in the US (granted, I haven't been to many malls outside of Florida). After finding that the movie we planned on seeing, Rio, didn't start for another 3 hours, we weren't worried. In fact, that might be just enough time--just barely--to visit all the restaurants we had already been imagining.<br />
<br />
So, the YAV India Saket Mall Progressive Dinner was born. We had appetizers at Hard Rock...entrees at TGI Fridays...dessert at Haagen Dazs. By the time we were finished, we were too full to even consider the popcorn we had so looked forward to having with our movie. The movie itself was cute, and afterwards we headed back to our hotel. It was almost like we had spent a few hours back in the US.<br />
<br />
And therein, my friends, lies the problem. How is it that one can walk from an average Delhi street, through a gate, and into uptopia? (a materialistic, consumerist utopia, that is). Why is it that the majority of the people in Delhi probably wouldn't even be allowed through security at that mall simply because they <em>look</em> too poor? (We looked like dirty travelers, of course, but the sad truth is that almost anywhere in India, white skin is an all-access pass). How can I just walk into a place that is inaccessible for so many? It might just be down the road from those living in abject poverty, but for them, it is a world away. It is a place they will never see.<br />
<br />
Let's not even talk about how much money we spent. Appetizers, dinner, dessert, and a movie. Not something the average American would necessarily do frequently in the US, but not out of reach. The prices at Saket Mall were comparable to US prices. And yet, the amount of money that I thoughtlessly spent in a matter of hours would probably feed a family for a month in Kerala. I am a product of my culture, and that type of wastefulness/excessiveness is exactly why the US disproportionately consumes so much of the world's resources; why our lifestyle is not sustainable.<br />
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To be fair, part of the reason for our over-zealousness, if you can call it that, was that when you don't have pizza for 8 months, and then you have a chance to eat pizza, you just really want the pizza, no matter the cost. Except it does. It matters.<br />
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I live a life of privilege, and I know that. While by no means rich by US standards (not even close!), I'm rich by world standards. I'm "rich enough to be poor for a year," as one fellow-YAV observed at <a href="http://madisoninindia.blogspot.com/2010/08/yav-orientation.html">orientation</a> in August. I've always thought that going back to the US in July would be a HUGE culture shock, bigger than coming to India in the first place. While I still think that will be true, to some degree, our YAV India Progressive Dinner taught me that maybe it won't be so hard. Maybe old habits die hard, or not at all. A depressing thought in the midst of a year that's supposed to be about transformation, simple living, and solidarity. But the tension of the rope between 'old me' and 'new me'--the space where I think these thoughts and ask these questions--the place where I experience cognitive dissonance over old, wasteful habits--that is where hope resides. <br />
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<em>"I don't believe in charity. I believe in solidarity. Charity is so vertical; it goes from top to bottom. Solidarity is horizontal. It respects the other person and learns from the other. I have alot to learn..." -Eduardo Galeano</em></div>Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12666370045123900075noreply@blogger.com0